


Buy a Bigger Throne

by ahloralordine



Series: We Share a Crown [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Rejection turned acceptance, Slow Build, Stiles is Part of the Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahloralordine/pseuds/ahloralordine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. And so the realization hits him. “You nearly got yourself killed like a moron for me?”</p><p>“Partially,” Stiles mutters. “I also did it for all the little boys and girls out there. You know, the ones in comas?”</p><p>Derek sweeps a hand over his face. He lets it rest over his eyes but Stiles can see his mouth. He’s not exactly grinning but it’s close. It’s so close. “So you want to be the angel on my shoulder, huh?” Derek asks. “I don’t think that’s possible.”</p><p>“Probably not,” Stiles says. “It’s more likely that I’ll be another devil. I promise I’ll only stab you in the neck with my pitchfork and not up your ass like Peter.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know the drill: I don't own Teen Wolf. 
> 
> Tons of swearing, sentence fragments, and dialogue. So much dialogue.
> 
> Uh, warning for the relatively ungraphic descriptions of decapitated evil pixies? And Fail!Oral sex with a popsicle.
> 
> Also, I didn't know Stiles' birthday was in June when I first started writing this, so in this 'verse, his birthday is in February. Oops.

* * *

**  
**

**EPIPHANY**

I.

(Five Days Before the Full Moon)

 

Three cars park beside the southern border of the Beacon Hills Preserve. Derek, Isaac (who’s still missing his right hand and part of his wrist), and Peter slide out of the Camaro and stand by the edge of the tree line. Jackson, Erica, and Boyd exit the Porsche, posture rigid. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if they argued the whole way here. Erica and Jackson still don’t get along.

Stiles and Scott hop out of the jeep. Scott joins the pack idling outside the forest but Stiles hangs back. He leans against the passenger door of his car and watches them test the scent in the air. All their heads tilt back, noses sniffing. It’s kind of hysterical, like watching a weird febreeze commercial or something.

Jackson’s growl is a low, rumble. “I can’t smell anything. How the fuck are we supposed to track these things if we can’t smell them?”

Derek sighs. “We’re looking for the Maroosh’s nest. If you smell any bogs or marshes, you head in that direction. You can smell _those_ , can’t you?”

It’s dark, but Stiles thinks he sees Jackson roll his eyes. The fact that they’re glowing helps.

“We’ll split into two groups,” Derek says. “Scott and Jackson with me. Erica and Isaac with Peter. Boyd, you stay with Stiles.”

Four gold eyes flash at him when Erica and Boyd glance back. Well, not getting stuck with Peter is a nice change.

“Okay,” Boyd agrees easily. It’s clear Erica is a little miffed about being separated from her partner in crime and losing the chance to play team leader.

Stiles already knew this was coming. As much as Derek doesn’t trust Peter personally (and for good reason), he does trust Peter’s senses and strategy. Now isn’t the time for Erica to have her trial run as Derek’s second in command—not when evil little pixies are collecting the souls of children. No, really. Every time Derek and Peter identify something as ‘a type of faerie,’ Stiles is just going to assume they mean a fucking demon. Because, seriously. The _souls_ of _children_.

Fortunately, the kids aren’t dead. They still have another five days until the Maroosh will eat their souls. Apparently, the full moon makes them ‘ripe’ enough.

Red eyes gleam from an almost indiscernible face. Stiles meets them in the darkness.

“I know it’s hard for you to see, but Boyd will alert you when it’s time to start the mountain ash circle. Be ready,” Derek says.

Stiles is proud that he doesn’t make a crack about seeing eye dogs. He nods. His fingers twist in the plastic trash bag holding the ash. It’s a bad night to be cloudy. He really could use the moonlight.

It’s not enough that the Maroosh steal the souls of children. Oh no. They don’t have the decency to be allergic to iron like normal fae. They’re vulnerable to sunlight instead, like creepy vampire pixies. As the only one capable of handling mountain ash, Stiles has the task of trapping the little devils in a barrier until a nice, fatal sunrise roasted their pied-piper asses.

The group splits into their respective teams and disappears into the forest. Boyd’s opaque shadow lingers at the edge before approaching the jeep. He joins Stiles in leaning against the passenger door.

“You really can’t see anything?” Boyd asks.

Stiles puts the palm of his right hand close to his nose. “I don’t know. Is my hand in front of my face?”

Boyd snorts. “It’s just weird. Sometimes I can’t remember what it was like to be blind in the dark and not be able to heal.”

Stiles doesn’t know how to respond to that. It strikes him as a sad revelation. He wonders if Scott feels that way sometimes and if he mourns for his humanity—his humanness?—when it occurs to him that it’s gone.

 

***

 

Crickets chirp. The wind blows. Stiles’ nerves jolt at every little sound.

“You know what sucks about waiting?” Stiles asks.

Boyd breathes quietly beside him. He doesn’t ask Stiles to continue but he does anyway.

“The fucking anticipation. Was that a soul sucking monster trotting in the underbrush or was it bambi?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Boyd’s tone is flat, indifferent, like he’s asking if it’s going to rain tomorrow.

“Not even in my sleep. Or so I’m told.”

Stiles shuffles the plastic bag between his hands. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He can’t go in the car. There’s nothing to say—although he’s sure he could find something, if he were really pressed to start a conversation—but it’s dark and eerie and the survivalist part of his brain knows he should keep his mouth shut so Boyd can concentrate on the pack’s movements and they can prepare for the ensuing swarm of Maroosh. Plus, Boyd isn’t much of a talker. He wouldn’t even keep Stiles entertained by getting annoyed like Derek.

Stiles manages to stay silent for twenty minutes.

“Do you hear anything? Are they _picnicking_? Is that what’s taking so long?” he asks.

Boyd shakes his head. Or at least Stiles thinks that’s what he sees. “Nothing. I can’t hear them at all anymore. That means they’re at least ten miles away.”

Stiles feels uneasy. They shouldn’t have had to venture so deep into the forest. The conclusion that the Maroosh’s nest was somewhere in the Preserve didn’t sit right with him in the beginning but now he’s almost certain they were wrong.

The Maroosh are gluttonous things that thrive on instinct and have very little intelligence, a disposition supposedly rare among faerie folk. But their sharp instincts greatly compensate for their basicness, which means that they _had_ to sense that a crayth was out here and more than willing to devour them.

They wouldn’t settle in the Preserve. It just doesn’t make any sense. It’s too far from their food source and it’s too close to the scariest fucking predator in Beacon Hills. (Stiles would like to say the world, but the universe has an unhealthy—often deadly—way of educating hyperbolic assumptions.)

“If I wanted to study the attacks again, how much warning could you give me before a storm of Maroosh descended on our heads?” Not that Stiles thinks that’s going to be a problem because he’s 85 percent sure that they were looking in the wrong place anyway.

Boyd hums, calculating. “Uh. If they’re as far away as I think they are, probably about fifteen minutes.”

“Good enough for me.”

Stiles sets the plastic bag of mountain ash by the front tire. Boyd steps aside for him to open the passenger door. From his glove compartment, Stiles pulls out a small flashlight and the map marking the attacks. He gets out of the jeep, shutting the door with his hip, and scans the red markings stretching from Redwood Drive to Sunset View. Boyd leans over his shoulder to study the map with him.

There aren’t any water sources near Redwood or Sunset. The closest ones would be in the Preserve, ergo the Maroosh had to be in the Preserve. That was the logic Derek and Peter settled on.

Stiles sighs. He wants to assume that he’s over analyzing but something is so _off_.   

“Kind of weird that the first attack was in Sunset,” Boyd says, voice quiet and reserved. “I mean, who even lives there?”

Stiles agrees. Sunset View is practically a ghost town because the houses are stupidly expensive.

And then the revelation slides easily into place, like a kid pushing a star-shaped peg into a star-shaped hole.

Stiles looks at Boyd. “You’re a genius, man.”

Boyd’s gold eyes blink in the darkness. “What?”

Stiles pulls out his phone and searches for all the houses on sale at Sunset View. “Houses. Dude, how long have those monstrosities been on the market? A few years? How many of them have _pools_? Ah! Look.” Stiles shoves the screen in front of Boyd’s face. “Number 45. On the market for three years at four million. And they nearly have an _Olympic sized_ swimming pool. Seriously, who the fuck—no, never mind. Not important. The pool has been closed and covered for all that time. I bet it’s pretty nasty by now. Swampy, marshy, boggy.” 

“We need to call Derek,” Boyd says. The light from Stiles’ phone allows him to see the heavy, serious swoop of Boyd’s pinched brow.

Stiles dials Derek’s number. The line won’t connect. He tries Scott’s but the result is the same. He sends a group text but his screen informs him that the message failed. He pockets his phone and the map.

“I think they’re in a dead zone. Can you howl for them?”

Boyd huffs. “Sure, if I want Derek to kill me. Howling is for emergencies only. Like, life or death emergencies. The alpha is the only one who uses a howl to regroup.”

“Yeah. Okay. No big deal.” Stiles shrugs. “It’s not like anyone’s life depends on finding these things. Oh, wait.” Stiles shoots a look at Boyd’s glowing eyes.

Boyd surrenders to Stiles’ point by releasing a loud, reverberating growl that echoes inside Stiles’ body like a low bass beat.

The answering roar that comes several minutes later does not sound pleased.

 

***

 

Derek, Scott, and Jackson emerge from the forest edge (Stiles knows it’s them because he recognized Derek’s roar). Derek is in front of them in an instant. Stiles feels the body heat of someone on his right side. Probably Scott.

“Why the hell did you call? I thought you were in trouble.” Derek sounds a little breathless. Running ten-plus miles at full speed is apparently taxing even for a werewolf.

“I think we’re searching in the wrong place.” Stiles retrieves his phone and shows Derek the house for sale on Sunset View. “It’s practically next door to the McAllisters. Look at the bit about the pool. Everything fits.”

Stiles watches Derek’s eyes move back and forth as he reads the descriptions. He hands the phone back.

“That does fit,” he agrees.

Jackson makes a derisive noise. “Seriously? Just like that? What if he’s wrong, Derek?”

Stiles can’t see Derek’s expression, but there’s a slightly stronger glow to Derek’s eyes when he turns them in the general direction of Jackson’s voice. “I don’t think he is. The Maroosh nest wouldn’t be so far from town. We should’ve found it by now.”

Stiles feels reassured that he and Derek share the same pattern of thought. He’d really hate to waste what little time they had.

And then the warmth of Derek’s palm is on his head, ruffling his hair. It’s a completely unexpected show of appreciation. Stiles flounders. The pressure turns into a mocking pat.

“Good boy.”

When Derek pulls away, Stiles fixes his hair. He knows they can see him and he hopes he looks annoyed and not flustered and—God help him—a little _pleased_ by the attention. God fucking help him. He shouldn’t feel remotely pleased, especially when Derek was being a condescending prick.

“If that’s where they’re hiding, we won’t even need to set a trap. I can just throw off the pool cover in the morning.”

Stiles is a little reluctant to leave the Maroosh with extra time to snatch up more souls. “I don’t know. What’s the harm in doing what we already planned to do? Can’t we take care of them tonight?”

“Stiles.” Derek’s eyes flare a brighter red, the same intensity that was given to Jackson. There’s a clipped edge in his tone, a warning that Stiles is stepping out of line. “It’s better to conserve resources. I’d rather not use the mountain ash if we don’t have to. It’ll be fine.”

Stiles doesn’t argue. This ‘don’t question the alpha’ shit was a fucking nuisance.

“So that’s it? We just call it a night?” Stiles asks.

“That’s it,” Derek says. “Go home. Get some sleep. There’s no sense calling everyone in. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

Stiles hears the crunch of roadside gravel as Derek and Jackson head to their respective cars.

“Good call, man,” Boyd says before Stiles feels the warmth of his presence retreat.

Stiles picks up the trash bag by the front tire and loads it into the back, using the flashlight as his guide. Scott gets into the passenger seat as Stiles closes the trunk. Stiles gets in the jeep, starts the engine, and catches sight of Derek’s Camaro and Jackson’s Porsche in the beam of his headlights before pulling out of the breakdown lane and down the freeway.

He heaves a long uneasy sigh. “I’m tempted to say fuck Derek’s rules and go take care of the Maroosh tonight.”

“Don’t,” Scott says, shaking his head. “There’s no point.”

“Wow,” Stiles snickers. “Are you siding with Derek? Pack bonding really is doing wonders.”

“Nah. I just don’t want us anywhere near soul robbing pixies without backup.”

“Fair enough, I guess.”

Stiles switches on the radio. Scott immediately switches it off. Stiles glances at him quickly, out of surprise and to see what the hell that’s about. Even in the jeep, it’s still too dark for him to see Scott’s face. He returns his eyes to the road and switches the radio on again, testing Scott’s reaction. He, again, switches it off.

Okay, then.

“What’s up with you? Something on your mind?” Stiles is bewildered. Maybe something happened out in the Preserve.

“I just want to talk about your face,” Scott says.

And wow, does that throw Stiles for a loop. “Uh. Do you want beauty tips or something?” It’s a lame joke, but he’s too confused to be clever.

“I mean your _face_ , man. The look on your face. I know that look. That was pretty damn close to the goo-goo for Lydia face and you were making it at _Derek_.”

Oh, son of a bitch.

Stiles swallows hard. Heat creeps up his neck and into his cheeks. “Please, for the love of all that is holy in this world, tell me that no one else noticed that.”

Scott splutters. “You. You’re not even denying it? Like, really? Derek? I mean, _Derek_?”

Stiles panics a little. “For the sake of my dignity, Scott, tell me no one else noticed!”

“Dignity?” Scott laughs. It’s not intentionally sarcastic, more prompted by shock than anything, but there’s a sickening level of reflexive disgust. “But _Derek_. Do you really? After? I mean—but Derek!”

“I swear to fucking God that hanging around Derek kills at least fifteen years of language acquisition. Use more words. Has anyone else _noticed_?” Stiles urges. “I’d like to be mentally prepared before someone else brings it up and I publically die of embarrassment. Or Derek maims me. Publically.” The jeep starts to shake. He’s pushing the speed a little too hard while he’s in fourth gear. He lays off the gas.

“Blugh?” Scott says with remarkable intelligence. Stiles is pretty sure he’s gaping. “Probably not? Maybe? I went off your face and no one knows that look more than me. You have been a little weird since we were all at Derek’s the other week. Oh my God, is that when it started? When he sat on you like a weirdo?”

Stiles grits his teeth. “Maybe. Probably. Sort of. I don’t know.” He smacks the heel of his palm across his forehead. “Oh fuck, now I’m doing it.”

“What do you even _see_ in him?” Scott asks.  

“If you’re asking whether love has blinded me into thinking he’s a teddy bear with a sparkling personality, it hasn’t.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Because there is no love.”

“I’d take that as a good sign if love has ever blinded you with anything. Dude, when you were twelve you said Lydia was terrifying enough to reform the antichrist. With hearts in your eyes.”

Stiles admits that that’s a fair point. “Let me clarify. This is firmly an ‘in lust’ thing. This is an ‘I’ve imagined Derek with his hand down my pants a few times’ thing.”

“Dude,” Scott says with feeling. “Too much information. If you ever get a boyfriend or girlfriend I’ll listen to all the dirty details you want to share, but in the context of Derek? That’s a ‘please, pass me the brain bleach’ thing.”

Stiles frowns. “Why? Have you seen him? I don’t care if you’re straight—straight people can realize when someone of the same sex is attractive. And Derek is definitely that. In spades. In aces. With a royal flush. And five of a kind. His hotness cheats the fucking laws of nature, the bastard.”

Scott fakes a gagging noise. “All right. How about this? I thought of boning Jackson.”

Stiles’ body flinches so violently that he nearly swerves off the road.

“Fuck!” Scott cries as Stiles rights the steering wheel.

“My quick reflexes are all that saved you from the instinct to crash the car on your side and put you down like Old Yeller.”

“I was only saying that to make a point! I haven’t really!”

Stiles exhales all the air in his lungs. “You know what I just realized? This is a conversation that needs to stop happening. Did you hear that? That was the sound of it dying.” Stiles’ grip tightens on the wheel. He narrows his eyes at the road in an attempt to channel all his focus into _not_ crashing the car. This is why he doesn’t like having serious, stressful, _distracting_ conversations while he’s driving.

“What’s that?” Scott says. His tone is light and dazed. “Oh, it’s still breathing. Yep, the conversation has been resuscitated.”

Stiles grunts, annoyed. “They say two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead. I’m thinking of applying that logic to this conversation. This can’t go on with the two of us, Scotty. I can crash on your side or abandon ship, your choice.”

“Oh wow,” Scott laughs. “Since I’m sure you’re actually going to follow through with that threat—no, wait. I don’t think you are. So I’ll just keep talking. You’re lying, Stiles. You’re crushing on him and I’m really fucking worried. But mostly horribly confused. But really worried.”

“I’m not.” Deny, deny, deny.

Now Scott sighs heavily. “Dude. Don’t even try.”

Sometimes having a friend who knew all of your tells was really inconvenient. “Look, maybe I am. A little. But honestly, I don’t even fucking know why. He’s bitchy all the time. And gloomy—but I don’t fault him on that. He has pretty good reason to be depressed. But, I mean, I don’t even _like_ him, man.” Which, he supposed, wasn’t strictly accurate. “He pisses me off endlessly. I piss him off endlessly. I still haven’t forgiven him for the Jackson thing, you know.”

“Good,” Scott says darkly. “You shouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “Well, yeah. Not water under the bridge. Maybe it’s a neurotic disorder. I like hot, hazel-eyed, bitchy, disinterested and unattainable people.”

“That’s it?” Scott sounds doubtful.

“Pretty much.” Stiles turns left. They’re almost at Scott’s house.

“That’s it?” Scott says again. And now Stiles recognizes it as a prod, not a question. And Scott is using that quiet, wounded tone that begs for an honest response. Goddammit.

“Sometimes he cracks me up. And he can keep up with me. Quip for quip,” Stiles concedes after a long moment of deliberation. “And sometimes I think there’s something to him. Like he has his own special brand of—of kindness. Or something. He’s just so damn lonely that maybe this is a sympathy thing but I doubt it.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair. He remembers Derek touching him and places his hand back on the steering wheel. “Look, that’s really all I’ve got. I really haven’t given it much thought yet. So just drop it, okay?”

Scott falls silent. Stiles turns on the radio.

Two songs and a commercial break later, he pulls into Scott’s driveway. The living room light is on and Stiles bets that Melissa is awake and praying that Scott hasn’t been horribly injured by the invisible things that go bump in the night. She’ll be happy to hear that their problem is an easy fix. No bloody mess or threat of dying painfully.

Her anxiety is just an example of why Stiles will never tell his father anything.

“You want to stay the night?” Scott asks.

“Sure,” Stiles says. “I just have to tell my dad. I’ll need to borrow some of your clothes though.”

Scott shrugs. It’s a common arrangement—practically a ritual—that really goes without saying. They get out of the jeep and enter Scott’s house. The glaring relief on Melissa’s face makes Stiles look away, ashamed.

 

***

(Four Days Before the Full Moon)

 

Stiles wakes up to a mass text from Derek.

_45 sunset a bust. checked other pools found nothing._

Stiles blinks. A bust? That can’t be right.

He sends: _Are you sure? You uncovered it?_

Derek’s response is a short, uninformative: _yes_.

“Fuck,” Stiles tells Scott’s unconscious body. He swings his legs over the edge of the air mattress. “Dude. Get up. We’re going for a drive.”

Scott’s face is buried in his pillow and his duvet is only covering his left leg. He mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “dun wanna moof.”

“Um. For the lives of children, remember?”

That gets a positive response. Scott shoots out of bed, eyes narrowed and groggy. He yawns.

They quickly dress and head out. The drive is quick compared to the rate it takes Stiles to get to the warehouse or the Preserve. Sunset View is an un-gated community, which always seemed odd to him considering the prices of the houses and the terrifying amount of damage a bunch of teenage vandals could do if they were bored and dickish enough. Or, you know, werewolves.

His old jeep doesn’t fit in with the cars owned by the few residents on the street and he’ll be lucky if no one calls the cops on him. He’s sure they’re already hyper vigilant with the sudden, unexplained epidemic going around.

Stiles finds number 45 and parks in front of the house. He’s not gutsy enough to park in the long driveway pretentiously decorated with stone planters that look like Greek urns.

“Why are we here if Derek already threw the cover off?” Scott asks as they reach the fence encasing the backyard and unlatch the gate.

“A hunch,” Stiles says. He doesn’t really have much of one. He just knows for damn sure that the Preserve is out.

They enter the backyard and there it is. The pool. It’s stupidly, unnecessarily _enormous_. Not even professional swimmers should have pools that large in their possession. It’s bigger than Lydia’s and that’s quite a feat. She tested to see how many people could fit inside her pool at one of her parties and managed a tightly packed 74.

Sure enough, the pool’s massive cover has been pulled away, exposing the low, murky water to the sunlight probably for the first time in years.

“What are we looking for?” Scott asks.

Stiles steps beside the right edge of the pool and inspects the cover crumpled on the patio. He’s disappointed. It’s made out of some sort of fabric instead of plastic. That’s it, really. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. Looks like he did waste a full day on a wild goose chase. Fucking fuck.

“Dude, what are you looking at?” Scott’s staring at him, bemused and mildly concerned.

Stiles glances down at the pool cover and then back at Scott. He does it several times to drive his point but Scott’s eyes don’t stray from his face. “The pool cover. Are you blind?” Stiles asks.

“Are you?” Scott points at the opposite side of the pool. “The cover’s over there, man.”

Stiles looks down and finds his hands empty and the patio bare. But he was just looking at the cover, wasn’t he? It was just in his hands, wasn’t it?

No. No, it wasn’t.

Stiles gets to his feet and moves to the other side of the pool and inspects the cover crumpled on the patio. He’s disappointed. It’s made out of some sort of fabric instead of plastic. That’s it, really. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. Looks like he did waste a full day on a wild goose chase. Fucking fuck.

He blinks. He feels like he just had a moment of déjà vu. Slowly, he stands up and kicks at the cover. The sound it makes is soft, muffled. Oddly unnatural. He surveys the pool, debating whether he should find something to fish around with in the water. Something tells him that’s not such a good idea.

All the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A chill rushes through his nerves despite the mild temperature of the summer morning.  

“Hey, Scott? Am I the only one who feels like he just entered the Twilight Zone here?”

Scott steps beside him and frowns at the water. “What do you mean? I feel fine.” He tilts his head and scratches at the back of his neck. “Actually, I feel really calm. I wasn’t nervous before or anything—at least I didn’t think I was. But being here? Yeah. I just feel better.” After a pause, he says, “That’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

Stiles nods. “Yep. I’m not so sure this place is—well.” He stops himself. The Maroosh had to be here and they were probably listening. On a whim, he silences his phone and sends himself a message. “Yeah. Let’s go. I don’t see anything.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Yeah. Derek’s right. It’s a bust. Sorry, man.”

Stiles sighs. He really thought he was onto something too. He still doubts that they’re in the Preserve. They must be around somewhere else. Maybe they’re in the fucking sewers because they don’t have enough of the creep factor going for them. He’ll have to look at the maps again. Granted, he isn’t sure if Derek will be willing to listen to another one of his theories after he already spent a day on nothing.

They head out the gate and back to the jeep. As they’re buckling up, Stiles checks his phone on reflex.

He rocks back against his seat and stares at the source of his unread text. “Huh. I have a message. From myself.”

Scott’s mouth purses and his eyebrows draw together. “Seriously?” He peeks over Stiles’ shoulder to see if he’s telling the truth.

Stiles opens it.

 _MAROOSH ARE IN THE POOL_.

Stiles and Scott exchange an apprehensive look.

“I don’t remember sending that. I don’t even remember taking out my phone.” With shaky hands, Stiles starts the car. “I’m getting out of here before we call Derek.”

“I’ll call him.” Scott takes his phone. Stiles can’t hear the ringing, but he knows the moment Derek picks up when Scott says, “So. Don’t get mad…”

 

***

 

Derek isn’t happy with their ‘independent snooping,’ as he put it. And he wants to talk to Stiles. Oh goody.

“Tell him I’m driving.”

Scott holds Stiles’ phone out to him. “He says to pull over.”

Stiles plucks the offensive device from Scott’s hand and holds it to his ear. He’s halfway to Scott’s and pulls into the breakdown lane only because he anticipates this will be an aggravating conversation hellbent on stealing his focus and endangering their lives. 

“Yes, Sunshine?” he says sweetly. Scott chokes on a horrified laugh.

“You like Russian roulette, Stiles? Try calling me that again and see what prize you win.” Before Stiles can think of a retort, Derek says, “What were you doing there?”

“Obviously checking your work. And it needed checking. Look—the Maroosh are nocturnal, right? Is it possible they can put up some sort of magic ‘these aren’t the droids you’re looking for’ shield while they’re vulnerable?”

Derek sighs. Stiles likes that sigh. It’s usually followed by something along the lines of ‘your logic is undeniable, you little shit, and I can’t argue with you even though I want to.’

“Maybe. But we have to be sure this time. If they are in the Preserve, they’re further than we thought and it could take several nights to find them. You know we don’t have time to search the Preserve _and_ spend a night at Sunset View.”

Right. Because it’s not exactly like Stiles can be in two places at once to put up the barrier, so splitting up is out.

“Peter has a solution.”

Stiles groans. “And just how bad is this solution?”

Derek doesn’t answer right away.

“Oh,” Stiles says. “That’s reassuring.”

“Believe me, I don’t like it but it’s our best bet. Peter thinks he pinpointed their next victim. We can stake out their house and follow the Maroosh when they—or it, I guess—flies away. The Maroosh will lead us right to the nest.”

Stiles sees Scott’s protests caged by the set of his jaw, muscles twitching under pressure. It’s admirable restraint, something Stiles continuously fails to achieve. Like now. He splutters, indignant and appalled. “You’re going to sacrifice a kid? Seriously? Oh, come on, _Derek_.”  

Derek quickly cuts him off. “Like I said, I don’t like it either. But that kid will lead us to the others. We can save all of them if we do this. It’s worth the risk.” Over the phone, Derek’s voice is soft and controlled. It’s remarkable he’s not barking about Stiles questioning his authority and blah, blah, blah. “If it flies to the Preserve…”

“Then we’ll search there. If it heads for the pool, same thing. Okay, yeah, I got that.”

“Be ready when I text you the location it chooses,” Derek says before he hangs up.

Stiles puts his phone in his cup holder before restarting the jeep. His knuckles are white from his tight grip on the steering wheel.

Poor kid.

 

***

 

Stiles and Scott are already waiting in the jeep when they get the text thirteen hours later, at 10:36PM.

_it chose the preserve. get over to the south side_

Stiles picked a spot close to Sunset because he was sure that was where the Maroosh would go. But again, he turned out to be wrong.

It doesn’t make any sense.

“Dude,” Scott starts. He’s clearly ready to talk him out of being stubborn, but that’s impossible because he knows he’s right, especially after the weird text thing.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to the Preserve. I’ll even cut most of the back talk I have prepared,” Stiles says.

Scott eyes him suspiciously. “You’re not planning something that will make Derek skin you alive, are you?”

“Of course not,” he grins.

Scott doesn’t need supernatural abilities to detect his lie. He has thirteen years’ worth of friendship to know Stiles has some scheme rolling around in his head.

Scott sighs. He also has thirteen years of experience failing to stop Stiles from pursuing those schemes and has learned to accept their inevitable outcome.

“Whatever it is, don’t get yourself killed. _Please_.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. God, he’s still planning. He doesn’t have any decisive action yet.

They arrive at the Preserve. All the werewolves follow the routine they began the first night; they split into the same teams and Boyd is, again, left to protect Stiles. The wait is longer this time around—they are searching deeper into the forest, after all—but they chase out the single Maroosh they saw enter the Preserve. Stiles messily traps it in a mountain ash circle. The rest is left up to time.

This is the first chance Stiles has had to get a look at the Maroosh. He shines a flashlight on it.

It’s no bigger than a toddler really. Blue-gray skin sags over small bones. The gossamer dragonfly wings are shredded in a way that looks natural, not as a result of age or injury. The face is—well. Spike from _Gremlins_ is a pretty good comparison in terms of ugliness. But this thing is hairless and has a slightly more human structure to its face. Big, almond-shaped eyes squint in the bright beam of Stiles’ flashlight. Bright red gums hold rows of thin, razor-like teeth.

The stolen soul is nowhere to be found. Derek and Peter come up with a list of bogs and marshes that they haven’t reached yet, deciding that another search is the best course of action.

In the rising light of the early morning, Stiles is poised to launch an argument; they haven’t found the nest yet and that meant something. He hesitates at the torn, uncertain look on Derek’s face. He full-on falters at the frustrated gleam in Peter’s subtle glare.

Neither of them knows what they’re doing. Derek lacks the know-how when it comes to dealing with supernatural threats, but he is the alpha—he needs to maintain control of the situation and provide the right answers. On the other hand, Peter has more experience and is practically an encyclopedia for supernatural baddies, but he’s conniving and constantly encroaching on the alpha position at every opportunity.

Stiles doesn’t think Peter would do anything violent to Derek, but he knows that Peter craves that power again. Stiles could see that hunger in him every time Derek flashed red eyes or used his alpha voice and the others submitted.

This was becoming a power struggle, even if no one else realized it yet.

The Maroosh are a make or break trial; if Derek fails to contain this threat, Stiles predicts the blame-game will start between him and Peter. If these six kids die, the pack wouldn’t be able to recover their faith in Derek as their leader and half of them would refuse to follow Peter. There’d be a permanent divide. And then Mimi would probably go back on her bargain and eat them all.

Lots of doom and gloom shit.

The Maroosh disintegrates at dawn and everyone gets into their respective cars. Stiles decides on his course of action. And it is something that’s going to make Derek skin him alive. It’s also something that could get him killed before Derek has the chance. Sorry Scott.

While he’s at it, he silently apologizes to Boyd too.   

 

***

 

(Three Days Before the Full Moon)

Stiles has come to the unfortunate conclusion that Derek isn’t stupid. If he confronts Derek and pushes going to the pool, that will only tip Derek off to his plan. And then he’ll do something aggravating like take his keys or something.

But they’re back at the Preserve tonight. Same pattern: Peter pinpointed the next victim, they spotted the Maroosh, it flew into the Preserve.

It’s up to Stiles to prove to Boyd that this is _not_ hard evidence that the nest is in the Preserve.

“Look, I think we underestimated the Maroosh’s intelligence,” he tells Boyd as they are, once again, leaning against the passenger door of his jeep. It’s not pitch black this time. The waxing gibbous moon provides enough light to see most of Boyd. “I think they’re smart enough to pull a red herring. And Derek and Peter are going to keep falling for it.” An obvious thought suddenly occurs to him. “You know what? Why haven’t we just asked Mimi and solved this once and for all?”

Boyd’s gold eyes shift away from the forest edge and settle on him. “Isaac brought that up. Derek said she’s still volatile. And if she’s not feeding, she could be worse than before.”

Figures.

“Let’s go back to the basics then,” Stiles sighs. “What was the number one rule that the bestiary told us? They hunt close to their prey. Twenty miles or so isn’t close to their prey, dude. And the phone thing I told you about? That’s pretty damn suspicious.” Stiles sways the bag of mountain ash back and forth. “I’m telling you. This is a huge waste of time.”

Boyd doesn’t quite sigh. Of course not. That would almost be a show of impatience. “Don’t tell me then. Tell Derek.”

Stiles scoffs. “Yeah. Like he’d listen to me. Like he’ll listen to anyone but Peter. That’s part of the problem.”

“So let me get this straight,” Boyd says. He’s completely facing Stiles now. “You want me to go against my alpha’s orders, abandon my post, and agree to have the human of our pack go up to fight the Maroosh almost single-handedly, because even if I went with you—and I’m _not_ saying I am—there’s no way I’d be able to cover you a hundred percent of the time.”

“Essentially.” Stiles shrugs.

Boyd blinks slowly. “Stiles. Are you out of your mind? Do you know how much trouble we’d be in?”

Stiles blinks back. Of course, he doesn’t have glowing eyes, so it’s not nearly as effective. “Boyd, do you know that shouldn’t even be a priority right now?” Because really, Derek’s wrath was endurable. “At the rate Derek’s going, he’s going to fail. Yes, fucking _fail_ because I’m right about this. And Derek probably knows that deep down but he’s just too afraid of making the wrong move so he’s sticking with the easy answer that’s been handed to him.”

“I shouldn’t be listening to you undermine his authority like this.” Boyd looks away, back to the Preserve.

“How is that—okay. Look. Either way, it’s the truth. You want to save those kids or not? I can’t do this by myself, man.”

Boyd doesn’t answer.

“Derek will thank us in the long run,” Stiles needles.

Boyd definitely sighs this time. His composure is cracking. “Why can’t you just wait one more night and then talk to Derek? You said yourself that the time it’s taking to find the nest doesn’t make sense. After another night of failure, he should come around, right?”

Stiles groans. “Because Peter has him convinced. If Peter doesn’t budge—and he won’t just to be fucking contrary—then Derek won’t budge.”

“Are you saying that Peter’s in control of Derek’s decisions?” Boyd asks this slowly, clearly mulling over the idea and its implications.

Stiles knows where those implications are going. “Oh no. Definitely not. Derek is very much the captain of this ship. Nope. I’m definitely team Derek. Don’t even think about Peter. That’s the dark side, my friend.”   

“Right.”

Stiles tries again. “Aren’t you sick of watching these kids get taken and no one doing anything about it?”

He thinks he lost the fight when Boyd stays silent, but then Boyd ducks his head and says, “Derek is so going to kill us.”

Probably. If the Maroosh don’t kill them first. Stiles lets out a deep breath and tries to control the shaking in his hands and his thundering heartbeat. This has to be done, but he _so_ isn’t looking forward to it.

They get in the jeep.

 

***

 

Sunset View is dark. The streetlights aren’t lit.  

Stiles parks beside the sidewalk at number 45 again and gets out to grab the mountain ash in the backseat. They approach the gate, unlatch the lock, and enter the backyard, where—surprise, surprise—the pool cover is still on the pool. There’s a hole in the cover at the furthest corner emitting an eerie, bioluminescent glow.

“I think we should go back and wait for Derek. Tell him we found the nest. I don’t like the idea of us doing this alone. It doesn’t feel right,” Boyd whispers.

Stiles’ nerve has taken a nosedive. Doing this without backup seems unimaginable now that he’s faced with the reality of it. Boyd can testify that he did, in fact, see the nest with Stiles so Derek will be more likely to believe him and finally come _here_. It’s not that Stiles is a coward; it’s just that he knows his original plan was ill-conceived and dangerous at best and suicidal at worst to the point that any alternative would be a better pick.

And then something throws Boyd across the patio, into the side of the house. Wood fragments from the siding crumble over his shoulders.

Well. So much for the promising, less threatening plan B.

Boyd gets to his feet and shakes himself off. A couple of Maroosh latch onto his arms with their wide, circular mouths. He tears their wings off and tosses them to the ground but they don’t stay down for long. Apparently, they also have supernatural healing abilities. That’s good to know. Would’ve been nicer to know _beforehand_.

“Go put up the barrier!” Boyd shouts as he rips and tears at the Maroosh swarming him. He decapitates one of them with several deep gouges of his claws. Urgh.

They’re _enraged_ , squealing and snarling like their lives depend on it.

Stiles sprints to the hole in the corner of the cover, quickly dips his hand inside the trash bag, and throws a circle of mountain ash around the opening. It stalls the Maroosh from having a direct exit, but then they start clawing through the cover in other places. Stiles pulls the pocketknife from his back pocket and slices off one of the bottom corners on the trash bag. He keeps the knife between his fingers as he catches the ash, guiding it while he moves around the perimeter of the pool.

He’s almost halfway done when a Maroosh latches onto the back of his left calf, teeth penetrating through his jeans. It jerks backviolently. Stiles cries out against the searing agony. He feels every sharp point embedded in his muscle and the wet sensation of blood soaked fabric sticking to his skin. He has a horrible feeling it’s trying to tear a chunk out of his leg. Another gets his right shoulder. Another his left side.

No, they’re not trying to tear him to pieces. They’re pulling him in the same direction. They’re trying to throw him into the pool.

“Fuck, Boyd!” Stiles shouts. He struggles to keep moving, but the Maroosh are strong. He takes the pocketknife in his hand and swings it up at the one biting his shoulder with as much force as he the angle permits. The pressure lessens, put the Maroosh doesn’t let go.

In the moonlight, Stiles sees Boyd try to shake off the swarm latched onto him. He roars, fighting them with more fervor, swinging his claws harder and deeper into the backs of their necks. The Maroosh don’t recover from the decapitations, but they’re harder to deliver.

Just as Stiles makes the halfway mark around the pool, Boyd reaches him and bites clean through the Maroosh’s necks. He wrenches their jaws apart and removes the dangling heads from Stiles’ shoulder, calf, and side.

There isn’t time to staunch the bleeding and Stiles finds it difficult to keep up the same pace with a painful limp. His heart pounds frantically. His vision dims and clears periodically, adrenaline compensating for the blood loss, which probably isn’t in the realm of life-threatening but certainly isn’t fucking _pleasant_.

Stiles pushes himself. Pushes and pushes and pushes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Boyd bat Maroosh away from them as he works to complete the circle. He leaves a break in the barrier when he’s back at the corner he started with.

“Boyd, pull off the cover as quick as you can,” Stiles pants.

“Will that mess up the circle?”

Stiles shakes his head. Somehow he knows it’ll hold.

Boyd grabs a fistful of the fabric and runs in the opposite direction of Stiles, pulling the whole of the cover along with him. There’s no way he could’ve managed that without werewolf strength; a pool cover that size must’ve been hundreds of pounds.

Stiles closes the circle.

It’s hard to believe there could be any Maroosh left in the pool with all the ones flying about, but the water is packed with furious, shimmering faces. All seven souls are in the center of them.

One of the stray Maroosh comes hurtling at Stiles’ head. He’s ready for it. He falls on his back and springs his legs in the air (and oh God does that kill his injured everything), catching it in the stomach. It’s off balance but still lunges forward. He grabs it around the neck, preventing its snapping jaws from sinking into his jugular. He can’t do anything more to incapacitate it. He doesn’t have claws or fangs. He doesn’t even have his fucking pocketknife.

“A little help here?” Stiles yells. He hopes no other Maroosh try to attack him because then he would be so screwed.

“Give me a second!”

Boyd’s responding shout comes from his right. Stiles glances over. Boyd is, once again, swarmed by at least seven Maroosh. Fuck. Help isn’t coming any time soon.

He gets an idea—he scoots forward, closer to the edge of the mountain ash barrier, which he fortunately hasn’t moved far from. He pushes the Maroosh’s back against the barrier, making it squeal and squirm hard against his grip. Its fingernails scratch across his arms. Suddenly, the Maroosh’s body wilts, strength depleted. Stiles throws it to the ground and creates a quick circle around it. There’s only a couple handfuls of ash left, enough for one more circle.

Boyd hasn’t killed any of the Maroosh assaulting him. Stiles limps over. His adrenaline rush is fading, and with it, his muscle control. He can barely stand. The Maroosh are too preoccupied with Boyd to notice the circle he tosses around them.

“Stiles! What the hell!” Boyd growls as he claws at the Maroosh’s wrinkly heads.

“Just,” Stiles gasps. “Tear their wings off. Concentrate on getting them off you. I’ll break the barrier and then put it up again.”

Boyd claws four off him and Stiles has to break the barrier before they can recover. That still leaves five Maroosh clinging to Boyd’s hip, thigh, shoulder, ankle, and forearm when he jumps over. Stiles fixes the circle.

At least he cut the number in half.

 

***

 

It’s nearly twenty minutes before Boyd is free of the Maroosh, their tiny heads rolling around on the patio. His wounds are already healing and Stiles can only watch the reknitted skin with envy. Sometimes being a human sucked.

“You going to be alright there, man?” Boyd asks, standing over Stiles where he lay sprawled on the ground.

Stiles feels cold and dizzy. His shirt is soaked with what he hopes is mostly sweat but knows is probably all blood. God, even he can smell it and he doesn’t have a werewolf nose.

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Just do me a huge favor, okay?”

“What’s that?” Boyd’s gold eyes are looking down on him.

“Never let me do anything like this ever fucking again.”

“Sure thing.” Boyd smiles. Stiles can see the bright gleam of his teeth in the faint light. “I’ll kill you myself if you even suggest it.”

Stiles trembles as he laughs, but when he stops laughing, his body doesn’t stop trembling. He’s honestly fucking shaking from head to toe. Not out of fear exactly. It’s too late for that. It’s the storm after the calm. He knows the danger is gone, but his stupid body is still reacting like the threat is active. And yet, it’s _because_ the danger is gone that the dam holding his fear broke.

His mind is racing.

He could’ve died. And how is he going to hide these injuries from his dad? He couldn’t go to the hospital. Not again. He should count himself lucky that at least they could be hidden under his clothes. And how fucked up is it that he counts _that_ as lucky? He could’ve died.

God, he doesn’t care what Derek has to say when he chews them out. He is so beyond caring. If he had his knife, he’d probably stab Derek in the shin if he said one more thing about his authority. That strikes Stiles as hilarious and he starts laughing uncontrollably, which makes his side scream in pain, which makes him laugh _more_.

“Uh. You didn’t hit your head or anything, right? Because—”

Stiles’ phone rings.

“You’re not helping,” he groans at it. He sighs and answers even though he really doesn’t want to. “What’s up?”

“My blood pressure and lack of patience. Also the number of times I thought of killing you in a minute. It’s a new record,” Derek says.

Boyd straightens at the sound of Derek’s voice.

“Ooh. That’s a good one.” Shit, his speech is starting to slur.

There’s a long pause over the line. “Where are you?”

“I bet you can guess.”

Derek doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re at the fucking pool, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh. And guess what we found,” he sings.

Another long pause. “Please tell me you’re just looking at the nest and haven’t done anything stupid.”

Stiles bites his lip. “Okay. I won’t tell you.”

Boyd takes a seat beside him and holds out his hand to take the phone. How silly. This is _his_ phone and he’s talking on it.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek says.

“You’re a little late to the party, man.”

Stiles hears Derek inhale loudly. Probably digging his patience out of its grave. “Are you okay?”

“Uh. Boyd is good. I’ve been better.”

“Can you put Boyd on?” Derek sounds surprisingly calm, almost soothing. Curiously not angry at all.

Stiles makes a face at his phone but does as he’s asked.

Boyd takes it and holds it to his ear. “Yeah?” he says. As soon as the word is out, he pulls the phone away from his head. Stiles can’t hear what’s being said, but Derek is definitely yelling. Nope, he was mistaken. Derek _is_ pissed. “Yeah—I know. Yeah. He’s, uh, persuasive?” Boyd gives him a once over. “He’s bleeding pretty bad. Derek, I don’t know how much humans can bleed before it’s _really_ bad.”

Stiles snorts and waves carelessly to dispel Boyd’s worry. “Dude, if I was bleeding to death, I would’ve done it already.”

“He says—oh, you did.” A pause. “His shoulder, side and leg. And no. I don’t have anything to treat him with. I don’t—I wouldn’t even know how.” Another pause. “Yeah. I can get him over there.” Boyd hangs up. He looks back at Stiles. “Can you move? I’ve got to get us out of here. Derek thinks that having another car park in front of the house would draw too much attention. Derek and Scott are on their way to Beaumont Street. We’re going to meet them there.”

Beaumont’s a good spot. It’s a dirt road that hardly anyone uses. It’s also relatively nearby.

“Yeah. I can move. It’s really a question of wanting to.” Stiles blinks at the stars. He’s quite comfortable on the ground.

“I could carry you, if you want.” Boyd’s offer is honest, like he doesn’t realize how that suggestion is absolutely humiliating and completely out of the question.

Stiles grimaces as he levers up on his good arm, the left one. It’s clear he won’t be able to stand without help so Boyd gives him a hand, taking most of Stiles’ weight as it leans to the right. They hobble back to the jeep like they’re running a three-legged race. Stiles slides into the passenger seat as Boyd takes his keys and gets in beside him. Thankfully, Boyd appears to know what he’s doing.

He must sense Stiles’ cautious approval because he says, “Derek is teaching us all how to drive standard. Just in case we need to use his car in an emergency.”

Okay, that’s enough to wake him up a bit. “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘is teaching?’ Like, currently? As in you _haven’t_ graduated from werewolf driver’s ed yet?”

Boyd shrugs. “I’m pretty good at it.”

“That’s good because if you do anything to my jeep, I swear—” Stiles falters. “I swear—” Nope. He still has nothing. His brain is so fucking fried. “I _swear_ —” Oh, god _damnit_. “You know what? Can you just humor me and pretend I came up with a clever and terrifying threat? Because that’d be great. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little off my game.”

“Sure,” Boyd says. It’s not very indulgent at all.

They stop talking, so Stiles takes the opportunity to black out.

 

***

 

He comes to when someone shakes him awake.

He blinks blearily at his surroundings but can’t see much—his visibility is shit. For one, he’s still in his jeep. They’re stopped so they must be on Beaumont Street. It’s dark—the thick trees bordering the road blot out the moonlight.

“You okay there, buddy?” the shaker asks. Gold eyes are looking at him.

“Scott?” Urgh. His voice is all raspy.

“Yup.”

A cloth swipes his side and fingers rest on the bare skin of his upper arm, just below the injury on his right shoulder.

“Dude. Am I naked?”

It’s definitely not the most embarrassing or unintelligent thing Stiles has blurted without thinking, but it’s at the top of his list right now mainly because that’s the moment he notices the pair of red eyes beside Scott’s. If Stiles had more blood in his body, he’d probably blush. Who knew blood loss had benefits?

Scott laughs. “Your shirt had to go. We needed to patch up these bites. Thank God you keep a first aid kit in here.”

Stiles tentatively brushes his fingers against the gauze and medical tape on his shoulder. “Yeah, well. I’m the one who would end up needing it.”

“I wish you could go to the hospital and get professional treatment,” Derek says. “But that would cause problems. I know that sounds callous but—”

Stiles cuts him off. “No, that’s fine. I get it. Even if these injuries weren’t weird looking, I still wouldn’t go. My dad—I mean, I’ve already been to the emergency room once this summer. A second time would really put a spotlight on me.”

“Yeah,” Derek says.

“Where’s Boyd?” Stiles asks.

“He’s in my car.”

The smell of rubbing alcohol suddenly hits him when the cloth swipes against his side again.

“Holy shit. That doesn’t even sting. I don’t—I don’t feel much of anything, actually. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Derek’s taking your pain,” Scott says.

“Huh.” Stiles didn’t know he could do that. Derek is being remarkably quiet about the whole disobeying orders and charging into lethal danger by the seat of your pants thing. Stiles is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Derek to rip him a new one.

Scott sighs. “This one is pretty bad. I think it needs stitches. Dude, I told you not to do anything that could get you killed.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. He hears movement, things being rustled around in the kit. “You knew better than to believe I’d stay out of trouble. Come _on_ , Scott.”

“Let me get this straight,” Derek says. And there’s the tight edge to his tone that Stiles has been anticipating all night. “You knew he was going to pull something like this?”

Before Scott has a chance to defend himself, Stiles laughs. “Oh please. I didn’t give you any hints and you instantly knew where I was. I think it’s fair to say that you had a pretty good idea what I was going to do too.”

Derek’s eyes disappear. He must’ve closed them. “I’m going to let that go for now.”

“You are.” Stiles narrows his eyes. “Why?” And of course he has to ask. He can’t help but push his luck.

“It’s hard to hold anything against you when you’re covered in blood. And when I say covered,” Derek reaches down—Stiles can vaguely see the shadow of his body move toward the bottom of his seat—and tosses his half soggy, half crunchy shirt onto his lap, “I mean _covered_. Just.” Derek sighs. “Just take it easy for now. I’ll kick your ass later.”

“You weren’t exactly a pillar of support the last time I was injured.” Stiles doesn’t mean to say that, but he doesn’t regret it either. Because the Jackson thing still pisses him off.

“Those were different circumstances.”

“Were they?” Stiles asks blithely. “You blamed me for that one. Are you going to blame me for this too?”

It’s a loaded question and it’s up to Derek whether he shoots himself in the foot or disarms Stiles’ prepared counterargument. He’s curious to see if Derek will take some responsibility, maybe even concede that his actions had a necessary purpose. Maybe Derek will fucking start listening to him when he says something.

Derek makes a frustrated noise. “We’ve had this conversation. Stiles, I didn’t _blame_ you for that. My hands were full and I had a gut reaction. My reaction was wrong. I’m sorry.”

For Stiles, it’s one of the best kinds of apologies because it’s unconscious, not an obligation filling a blank space or something weepy and over the top. He doubts Derek even realizes he said it. It’s not perfect, but it’s a step in the right direction at least.

“But you do blame me this time,” Stiles challenges.

Again, Derek closes his eyes. When he opens them, they blaze brighter in the darkness. He sighs heavily and Stiles feels it on his arm. He didn’t think Derek was that close. His traitorous insides churn pleasantly. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I told you I’m not having this conversation right now,” Derek says softly.

That tone makes it worse. He never thought Derek’s voice could sound so fucking gentle.

Stiles pushes the distraction away. “We’re having it whether you like it or not.”

Derek’s sharp laugh erases all trace of that gentleness. “I’m not saying this for my sake. I’m saying it for yours. Don’t overexert yourself.”

Stiles scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“You only think you feel fine because I’m taking your pain.”

Stiles can’t imagine that this pain absorbing thing was _that_ effective. He feels—well. He feels normal. He can’t imagine pain at all.

“Then take your hand off.”

Derek’s fingers twitch against his arm, hesitating, before pulling away.

Stiles doesn’t know what hits him the hardest, the fuzzy, pounding headache that’s trying to split his brain in two, or the woozy, sweeping nausea that burns at the back of his eyes and is so fucking _pressing_ that it actually hurts.

It doesn’t take Stiles long to realize that the lingering effects of Derek’s power were still curbing his pain.

And then his headache and nausea are _nothing_.

The bites feel parasitic, like they’re vindictively feeding off his discomfort and live to make it worse. Pain crawls out of them, tangling in his bones and pulsing deep in his muscles. His body can’t decide on a temperature—the pain burns hot in some places and hurts so much that it’s cold in others. Like his side. Oh God, his side. He feels a sharp, dragging pinch.

Scott. Scott has been sewing his wound closed all this time. He can feel the needle in his skin, the tug of the thread.

Stiles shouts.

And then Derek’s hand is back on his arm before Scott has a chance to growl at him. The pain vanishes. It was only back for a few seconds.

“Like I said. Don’t waste your energy.” Derek’s voice is tight again, but it’s a different kind of strain. Not one fueled by anger.  

“I can’t go back home like this,” Stiles muses.

“All done,” Scott says. He wipes the excess blood and quickly bandages Stiles’ side. “You should stay at my house and have my mom take a look at you.”

Stiles’ jaw clenches. “Can’t. She told me that if I got injured again, it was time to tell my dad. And if I didn’t tell him what was going on, she would.”

Derek makes a noise. Stiles isn’t sure whether to call it a sigh or a thoughtful hum. He’s not even sure if Derek is agreeing with her or not. The noise Scott makes, on the other hand, is clearly disapproving.

“My mom is pretty sympathetic. You could persuade her not to tell. She’d hate it if you were hurt and didn’t go to her because you were afraid of what she was going to do. Come on, dude.”

That’s—yeah, that’s something Stiles can’t do. Scott probably doesn’t even realize what he’s implying. Stiles presses his face into his hands, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and cheeks. “Scott. I’m not going to manipulate your mom.” He meets the gaze of the two gold irises floating in the dark.

“What? I wasn’t suggesting—no. That’s _not_ what I meant.”

“But it could turn out that way,” Stiles says. “I don’t want to do that to her. I couldn’t. Plus, this is something she’s not going to budge on. She made that pretty clear. You were in the house when we had this discussion. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it.”

Scott doesn’t say anything. Stiles can imagine the contemplative look on his face, trying to remember where he could’ve been while this was going on.

“If you can’t go home or to Scott’s, you should come to my apartment to heal up. Tell your dad you’re hanging out with Isaac or something,” Derek says.

Stiles thinks about that. He hates the idea of lying to both his dad _and_ Melissa, but even if Derek hadn’t made the suggestion, Stiles would’ve come up with the same cover story.

“That would be good,” he says. His relief makes him a little breathless. “Yeah. Thanks.” The thought of Peter being there suddenly sours his appreciation. “Ugh. Peter,” he groans.

Derek’s red eyes roll. “He moves around a lot, so he won’t be around much. The benefit is you’ll constantly be near us. You’ll heal faster.”

Stiles yawns. “Really? Huh.” It occurs to him that he needs to figure out what to do with his jeep. “Driving,” he says. “My jeep. It should be outside your complex.”

“I’ll get it there,” Scott says.

“I’ll drive you home,” Derek tells Scott.

Stiles knows he’s about to lose consciousness again, can feel it in the insistent drooping of his eyelids. He wonders if he’s in shock and can’t feel it because of Derek. “Don’t yell at Boyd. I made him do it.”

“Oh, I bet you did,” Derek says. There’s a note of amusement there. Ha. Derek probably didn’t want that to slip out.

“Yeah. And a blanket in the trunk.” His speech is starting to slur again.

The last thing he hears is, “I’ve got it.”

 

***

 

Stiles isn’t awake or asleep. He’s in that weird limbo between the two, incapable of responding to his surroundings even as he’s aware of them. He feels like he’s floating, which means someone is carrying him.

Fuck. He was really hoping to avoid looking like a trashy romance cover. Derek better not be the one carrying him because that would just be—awful. And if he’s still shirtless—well, then he’ll be fucking mortified. He has to make sure Scott isn’t taking pictures.

“Phone away Scott no tawdry chick,” Stiles says.

Well, there was _half_ of his sentence.

The person holding him pauses and his arms start to shake, probably from laughter.  

“Already dropped him and Boyd off.”

Goddamnit. It is Derek.

“Could have woken me.”

Someone opens the door for them, probably Isaac. Derek sets Stiles down on the couch and the soft surface molds to his dead weight. He feels the warmth of blankets being laid on him and a small cushion is pushed under his head. He hears breathing. Clinking noises. A kitchen faucet. Muffled speech.

His mind sinks into sleep before resurfacing at the call of his name.

“Have some water,” Derek says.

It’s a significant effort to get his eyelids to cooperate. He blinks very slowly at the glass in Derek’s hand. He takes it, sips it, then gulps it. God, he can’t remember ever being so thirsty. He finishes it and it’s not enough. Derek goes to refill the glass.

Now that Stiles is a little more hydrated (although the water isn’t really in his system yet), he’s more awake. He tilts his head to get a better view of the kitchenette behind the wall and watches Derek at the sink. There’s blood on his forearms.   

Stiles looks away. His head is still killing him.

Peter occupies a new armchair beside the TV in the corner of the living room. His face is placid, bordering on fucking meditative. It’s predictable; Stiles wasn’t really expecting him to have much of a sympathetic reaction to his injuries. It would’ve been more disturbing if Peter _had_ been sympathetic, to be honest.

Isaac is sitting on the floor at the opposite end of the couch, by Stiles’ feet, watching him carefully out of the corner of his eye. Most of his right hand has grown back but he’s still missing all of his fingers.

“And how is our superhero doing?” Peter simpers like the patronizing bastard that he is.

“Oh no.” Stiles grins tightly. “Boyd is the superhero. He has the muscles, the good looks, a deep, dark secret to hide from the public.” And that weirdly describes every member of the pack. “I’m the guy who can take a look at information and actually know how to use it. And not pretend I know what I’m doing.”

Peter laughs. “If you’re trying to convince me that your clusterfuck of a plan went just as you wanted it to, then you’re more damaged than we thought.” Peter’s good humor turns serious. His tone is hard and controlled. “And please. You’re pretending just as much as the rest of us. If you’re going to be insulting, at least have a leg to stand on.” He glances down at Stiles’ blanket covered legs, smirking. “No pun intended.”

Derek returns from the kitchenette, practically stomping. He hands the glass to Stiles and throws a look at Peter. “Knock it off. We’re not talking about this now.” Derek’s eyes flare red.

And holy shit, Peter flares his eyes right back. Stiles may not be an expert on werewolf behavior, but he likes to think he’s getting there, and he definitely knows that Peter just gave a full show of insubordination. The others did the eye thing occasionally, but it was always unintentional and never more than a flicker. Peter turned on the fucking high beams. Holy fuck.

Isaac quickly moves out from between Derek and Peter, diving toward the end where Stiles is propped up and dreading a potential brawl.

Won’t somebody please think of the neighbors?

“He nearly got your beta killed,” Peter says.

“He nearly got _himself_ killed. Boyd made his own choice to go with him,” Derek says. The muscles in his back tense and flinch with the same coiled anticipation attack dogs have when they’re ready to charge. He steps closer.

Peter meets Derek’s glare head on. “And compared to Boyd, Stiles’ weaknesses make him far more of a liability than an asset _and_ a predictable loss given the dangers we face.” Peter grips the ends of his armrests. He’s hunched forward with his feet flat against the floor. He’s ready to meet Derek’s assault. If he makes one.

Peter doesn’t say it directly but the implication is crystal clear: Stiles isn’t worth as much because he’s human. Out of all the problems that Stiles figured Peter had with him, being human wasn’t the one he expected to cause drama.

Derek seems taken aback by the insinuation. “Are you honestly saying you want him out because he’s human?”

“I’m saying you should’ve turned him _ages_ ago.”

“He doesn’t _want_ it.”

“You never _asked_.”

“I’ve never wanted to.”

Peter’s eyes brighten, not with a flare of blue, with something else. They widen as a mocking smile spreads across his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but Derek cuts him off.

“ _Don’t_. You’d be wrong.” Derek’s voice vibrates with an inhuman growl.

Stiles catches the quick look Isaac shoots him and thinks that Derek’s heart may have skipped. It doesn’t mean anything. Stiles thought about what being a werewolf would be like when Scott was freshly turned. His passing curiosity was what made his heart skip, which Peter interpreted as a lie. Stiles wanted the fantasy not the real deal and he was smart enough to know the difference, even if his involuntary muscle contractions said otherwise.

“I still don’t want it, by the way,” he throws out there. Maybe the distraction will diffuse some of the tension.

Nope. Peter and Derek don’t even glance at him. They’re too wrapped up in their pissing contest to care about the impressionable kids in the room. Seriously. Isaac is shaking. But then again, any show of aggression might remind him too much of his father.

“Derek. If he was one of us, he wouldn’t be lying there and Boyd would’ve had more support.”

What the hell? Peter isn’t stupid but apparently he’s too blinded by his prejudices to see the huge flaw in that theory.

Stiles discovers that blood loss makes him bitchy—he doesn’t even think to censor himself. “Yeah, you’re right. I’d be in tip-top shape right now if I was a werewolf. But you know what, dumbass?”

And that catches everyone’s attention. Peter isn’t adverse to backtalk but outright disrespect really gets under his skin. (Which Jackson has learned the hard way.) Isaac looks appalled, like he can’t believe Stiles just antagonized a pissed off werewolf. Not that he hasn’t done that before, honestly. Derek is some mix between shocked and livid, but Stiles can’t be sure which emotion is directed at him and which is directed at Peter.

“I wonder who would’ve put down the mountain ash,” Stiles says offhandedly. He is so done with stupidity and bullshit werewolf politics. “As a werewolf, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t touch it. Oh, and while we’re at it, who would’ve been able to pull Mimi’s teeth out of Isaac’s arm _and_ talk to her without getting eaten?” Stiles passes his glass of water into his left hand and cups his right hand around his ear, mock listening to the crickets chirp. The movement hurts, which only spurs on his insolence. “Look at that. I’m hearing _no one_. Actually, if I was a werewolf, all of us would be _dead_ because Mimi would’ve helped herself to a nice happy pack meal. So here’s an idea—why don’t you get the fuck over yourself.”

Peter stares at him, eyes bright blue. He surges to his feet, but Derek is there, fisting a hand in his shirt to stop him from going after Stiles. Peter has more control and wouldn’t just lash out carelessly (like Jackson) which makes Stiles morbidly curious—what was Peter going to do?

“Take a walk,” Derek hisses in Peter’s face before releasing him.

Peter steps back, carefully meeting the eyes of everyone in the room before opening the front door and slamming it shut behind him. The door, surprisingly, doesn’t break.

Derek and Isaac stay frozen, waiting and listening. When the tension in their posture falls away, Stiles assumes that Peter has moved out of hearing range.

Isaac expels a deep breath. “Sometimes I think you have a serious death wish.”

Derek turns to Stiles, brimming with irritation. His expression is a throwback to when they first met, baleful and hard. It stings to see that again. But fuck, what was he supposed to do? Is he supposed to be ashamed because he’s human? Fuck that.

Stiles can’t flash his eyes but he can still be defiant. He raises his chin and meets Derek’s stare the way Peter did. He doesn’t maintain it for long. He’s honestly too tired to put up much more of a fight.

“A word of advice,” Derek says. “Never humiliate Peter intentionally. He holds grudges, always has. He’ll get you back for this when you’re least expecting it. It—” Derek stops, face contorting into a pained grimace. “When I was a kid, it used to be a playful thing or a prank that almost went too far. I don’t trust him to have the same limits. I don’t want to tell you to watch your back around your own pack members, but watch your back, Stiles.”

“I always have around him.” Stiles tries to shrug without jostling his bad shoulder. He brightens at a thought. “Hey, does this mean you won’t leave me alone with him anymore?” Because seriously, all of this might be worth it if that’s the result.

Derek runs a hand across his face. “What the hell am I going to do with you?” He takes a seat in the armchair and throws his head back to glare at the ceiling.

“How about listen more? I might bruise like a peach but my brain stings like a bee. I had the answer all along and you wouldn’t consider it.”

Derek groans. A loud, guttural, ‘you make me want to punch walls’ groan. “I fucking _said_ I’m not going to talk about this now. I said this out of consideration for the fact that you’re a mess. Stop tempting me to strangle you.”

After a minute of silence, Stiles says, “I’m still right.”

“Drink your fucking water.”

Stiles does.

When Stiles finishes it, Derek asks, “How’s your pain?”

“Floating away like it’s a candy cloud chasing a unicorn.” Stiles snorts. “What the fuck do you think? It’s getting down and dirty with my nerve endings.”

Derek stares at him. “Can you just talk like a normal person?”    

“So what happened at the nest?” Isaac interrupts. “Boyd was taken home before I had a chance to ask him.”

Stiles settles back and closes his eyes. He tells them as much as he remembers and leaves out his reasons for attempting his insane plan, mostly his fear of a complete breakdown in the pack. That’s for Derek to hear later.

“So yeah. If it’s any consolation we were going to turn back.” Stiles opens one eye to look at Derek. He’s resting his elbows on his knees, listening intently. “And apparently the Maroosh are familiar with the lottery! The lucky winner gets to sacrifice itself for the good of the many. By the way, let’s add that to the bestiary.”

“That and the fact that you can kill them,” Isaac says. “Why wasn’t that in there?”

Stiles picks at a loose thread on the edge of the couch. “I’m guessing because human hunters don’t have enough physical strength to do it. That or their weapons weren’t strong enough. You could probably kill them with a chainsaw, but then the noise.” Stiles pulls a face. Yeah, using a chainsaw in the middle of the night wouldn’t be suspicious or anything. “Or a handsaw. But then there’s the issue with extension cords—not very convenient.”

“Yeah,” Isaac says, sounding thoughtful. “I guess that makes a lot of sense.”

“It does,” Derek says. He has that quiet, impressed look on his face that makes Stiles sheepish and smug all at once. He loves showing off in front of Derek and getting rewarded with that look. Granted, it doesn’t happen often; showing off typically ends with Derek getting pissed at him. (Which can sometimes be fun in its own way.)

Derek scratches at his face before getting up and taking the glass. He pulls out a bottle of pills from his pocket and tosses it on Stiles’ lap. “Here are the pain killers from your kit, if you wanted to take them. You should also call your dad. I’d do it soon—the sun is almost up.” Derek gets more water. When he returns with the glass, he says, “If you need anything, Isaac will be here. I have to head to work in a few hours. Get some rest.”

He disappears into his bedroom.

Stiles swallows two tablets and takes Derek’s advice—he calls his dad, easily spinning an intricate lie to solve every suspicious question hurled his way. Isaac Lahey? Doesn’t he live with Derek Hale and his uncle? You’re staying at the house of _three_ former murder suspects? Which Stiles has to point out that ‘suspected’ did not mean criminal. (Even if Peter is guilty of murder, including the one that brought him and Scott into this mess.) It’s very difficult to convince his dad not to drive by and check on him later. But he manages. At least he hopes he does.

Isaac heads to bed soon after, leaving Stiles alone in the dimly lit living room.

He finds himself grateful that all of this happened in summer. He doesn’t know what he’d do if something like this goes down during the school year. His secrets with his dad will be pretty much blown at that point.

And with that thought, Stiles drifts into a fitful sleep.

 

***

(Two Days Before the Full Moon)

 

Boyd pays him a visit around one o’clock. He whistles low when he sees the extent of Stiles’ injuries, which are visible for all the world to see once he sits up and throws the blankets off. Stiles isn’t wearing a shirt and apparently Scott cut off half of his left pant leg to get to the bite on his calf. Well, they’re sort of visible. Boyd sees the wide swatches of gauze soaking up red circles of blood and medical tape fixed to his skin.

In a word, Stiles feels vile. Achy, fuzzy, groggy, grimy. He needs to brush his teeth and wash his hair or at least wipe away the remaining dirt and blood on his skin.

Isaac offers to get him a shirt but Stiles declines. It’s pretty warm and stuffy in the apartment.

“I think we should form some sort of group. Just call us team red shirt,” Stiles says, waving a hand between Isaac and himself. He and Boyd laugh at the face Isaac makes. “I’d give you a high-five, but you know.”

The corner of Isaac’s mouth quirks. “I’d pat you on the shoulder, but you know.”

Stiles grins. “Exactly.”

Boyd tilts his head, face suddenly serious and thoughtful. “Maybe we _should_ form a group. You could use some training up, Stiles. Defending yourself like this—” And Boyd gets on his back, knees drawn up and arms held out to mock strangle an invisible assailant. His expression is comically fearful, eyes as wide as can be and mouth an exaggerated ‘o.’ Isaac and Stiles lose it. Oh God, laughing is bad for his side but he can’t stop. Boyd gets up. “—isn’t exactly effective. There were so many ways to get out of that and none of them needed werewolf strength.”

Stiles snorts and picks up his glass from the floor to refill it. “What are you talking about? I thought my method was pretty damn clever. Plus, if I just dislodged that Maroosh, I would’ve had to fight back, which would’ve put me right back at square one.”

Boyd nods. “Maybe you should learn.”

“Yeah,” Isaac says easily. “Maybe you should ask Derek to teach you.”

Boyd and Isaac exchange a look. Stiles knows that kind of look because he shares them all the time with Scott. It’s a secret, inside joke look, a ‘hardy-har, good show, chap’ look. And Stiles knows what it translates to.

They fucking know he has a thing for Derek. Oh, those bastards.

“No,” Stiles says. He glowers at his water as he takes a sip. There’s no way he could handle Derek correcting a defensive stance—a topless Derek at that, because he hardly ever wore a shirt sparring, which was sort of practical because _claws,_ but was nevertheless totally distracting.

Stiles chokes on his water at the mental image.

“Seriously though,” Boyd says. “We could use the practice.”

It’d be good for them, an environment free of superiors. “Sure, why not,” Stiles says. “I’ve got your numbers, right?” They nod. “Just us. No Erica.” As inseparable as Boyd and Erica were and as much as Stiles adored her, she was practically Derek’s second and her presence would police their behavior and confidence.

“And no Scott,” Boyd returns. “Just us three.”

Fair enough. As the ‘oldest turned,’ Scott was much more natural with his abilities and would have the same effect as Erica.

“Speaking of which. Where is she?” Stiles asks.

“Probably on her way,” Isaac says.

Boyd explains that because he and Erica don’t have cars, they meet at Derek’s apartment as a halfway point. He ran here. Stiles doesn’t know where Boyd lives, but he knows that Erica’s house is at least fifteen miles away. In the meantime, they make plans to meet up at the warehouse. Of course, they have to factor in Stiles’ healing time. They resolve to do it as an after school thing when the semester starts. No sense spending even more of their summer in the warehouse.

Erica arrives forty minutes later.

She surveys the damage on Stiles’ body and shakes her head.

“If you do anything like this again, I’m pretty sure Derek is going to chain you to the warehouse.” Erica pauses. “Or throw you in his trunk and chain it closed so you can’t escape with the emergency latch.” One of her ferocious grins spreads across her face. “I think I might help him if it comes to that.”

Stiles settles deeper into the couch, rolling his eyes and then closing them. He’s starting to feel tired again. “This is what happens when you save lives, I suppose.”

That sobers her humor. She frowns, shoulders slumping slightly. “Yeah. You really knew where they were, didn’t you? Next time you get an idea like that, call me. I’ll come back you up even Derek says not to.”

Stiles looks at her, alarmed. That’s a dangerous reaction to have. It’s a very, very bad reaction actually. He did _not_ disobey Derek to usurp his authority. Which, now that Stiles thinks about it, sounds a bit like an oxymoron.

“No,” Stiles says quickly. He’s a bit terrified that he caused a mutiny. “No, you won’t.” Erica’s face doesn’t fall, but it is in the direction of disappointed. “Oh, no,” he says again. “I appreciate it. I really do. But that wouldn’t be good. You should listen to Derek. He’s your alpha. He just.” Stiles pauses, choosing his words carefully. “He just needs to learn to listen. He’ll get there. You’re learning to be werewolves, right? Well, I think he’s learning to not be a beta.”

Erica wrinkles her nose. “It’s hard to imagine Derek as a beta.”

Isaac and Boyd share a similar expression of disbelief.

And it suddenly strikes Stiles that they didn’t know Derek before he sort-of-killed Peter, when he was just a beta.

“I can because that’s how I met him,” Stiles says, shrugging. He winces. Damn shoulder.

“Anyway. We have to go. Take care of yourself, man,” Boyd says. He rises from the couch and brushes against Erica’s side.

Erica nods even though she seems reluctant to leave Stiles. She steps up to him and puts her hands in his hair, ruffling it into a mess.

“Urgh!” Stiles tries to pull away.

Erica growls and then laughs. “We’ll see you later.”

They leave. And then there were two.

Isaac casts him a sidelong glance from the opposite end of the couch. The atmosphere in the room turns heavy and awkward.

“Do you need anything?” Isaac asks like it’s an obligation not a concern.

Stiles shakes his head. “You got any mouthwash and shampoo I can borrow?”

Isaac narrows his eyes, suspicious and wary. “Why?”

“Clearly I’m building what’s known as a hygiene bomb.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I just want to wash up, dude.”

“Help yourself. They’re in the bathroom.” Isaac points to a door on the wall to Stiles’ left, close to the front door. “Call me if you need anything.” And with that, he goes to hide in his room.

Stiles limps to the bathroom, rinses his mouth with the mouthwash he finds in the cabinet under the sink. He grabs a towel and the shampoo from the enclosed shower in the corner and washes his hair in the sink in the kitchenette (it’s bigger and not as low as the one in the small bathroom). He soaks the towel in water and wipes off the thin film of dried blood and dirt within reach.

He places the towel beside the couch and asks Isaac if he has some sweat pants or something he can borrow. Seriously, his jeans are a mess of human and Maroosh blood, ash, dirt, and torn denim. Isaac tosses a pair out to him and closes the door without another word. Stiles changes in the bathroom. Scott will probably be by at some point, so before Stiles settles down for a nap, he texts: _bring clean underwear thx_. Because he’s not asking Derek or Isaac for that—that would just be too fucking weird.

 

***

 

Scott and, surprisingly, Deaton show up a few hours later. Scott cleans and redresses the bandages on Stiles’ shoulder and leg. But before Scott does anything to his side, Deaton checks over the suture work. He looks satisfied by what he sees, which is a huge relief. Stiles would really hate to have them redone.

Scott drops off Stiles’ backpack, filled with clothes, a toothbrush, and his laptop. Deaton has his own gift, some druid potion thing meant to speed his recovery. Apparently he started brewing it after Jackson broke Stiles’ rib. It tastes like dirt and really strong honey. And it’s gritty. The texture is far more disturbing than the taste.

Isaac is sitting in the armchair. He’s staring like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what.

It’s a short visit; Scott doesn’t feel welcome in Derek’s apartment and is especially uncomfortable with his absence. Entering another wolf’s territory without explicit permission and all that jazz.

“The invitation to my house is still open, you know,” Scott says as he’s preparing to head out.

“I know,” Stiles says. He’ll probably head over once he’s mostly healed.

“I’ll text you later,” Scott says.

Stiles waves and laughs. Deaton is already out of the apartment waiting for him, amused by Scott’s lingering. “And I’m sure I’ll reply.”

Scott leaves. Isaac goes back to his room. Stiles falls asleep again.

 

***

 

He wakes at the sound of the door closing. Weak, yellow light streams in from the window and Derek is in the armchair, reading something off a laptop.

Stiles grunts as he sits up.

Derek looks at him. “How are you feeling?”

That’s the fifth time Stiles has been asked that today. He’s really starting to resent the question.

“Better,” he answers. And he is. He feels cleaner, more rested, better hydrated. Even his pain isn’t a roaring blaze in his nerves. If he’s going with a fire metaphor, he’d say it’s down to an endurable brushfire as opposed to, you know, a fucking inferno. Deaton wasn’t kidding when he said the potion would lessen the pain quickly.

Derek nods. “That’s good.” There’s a silent pause before he says, “The remote is beside you if you want to watch something.”

Stiles looks at it. God—what is his life coming to? Just chilling at Derek’s. It’s so fucking surreal. He may have a thing for Derek but he never really imagined being alone with him in his home. Most fantasies involved the Camaro, his jeep, or his room. This is weirdly domestic and—well, it’s just _weird_.

“Scott stopped by,” Stiles says for the sake of saying something. He’s kind of at a loss and feels thrown by the uncomfortable intimacy of being alone with Derek and sitting on his couch. Because he knows they’re alone. He saw a glimpse of Isaac heading out just as he woke up. That and Isaac’s shoes are no longer beside the couch.

“I know.” Derek glances up briefly from his laptop. He taps his nose with a look that says ‘werewolf, remember?’

“Right. Was that okay?”

Derek’s eyebrows pinch together. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? You’re all welcome to come over whenever you want.”

“Really?” Stiles stares at Derek, who’s now looking up from the laptop, staring back. “So Scott can just come drop by without you here. And you wouldn’t have a problem with it?”

“Yeah,” Derek drawls. “I’m not sure why he would, but that would be fine. You could too, by the way.” The corner of his mouth twitches and he waves a hand, indicating that’s exactly what Stiles already did.

And that’s all rather surprising. Stiles always figured Derek’s apartment was off limits except for Isaac and Peter because they lived with him. As far as he knew, Scott, Erica, Boyd, and Jackson were under the same impression.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Do the others even know they have an open invitation?”

He pulls one of the blankets over his shoulders. He’s regretting not getting that shirt now. He remembers his backpack and bends down to rummage through it, to see if Scott grabbed him one. Score. There’s one of his button up flannels. He puts it on and rolls up the sleeves, conscious of every move that will disturb his shoulder.

Derek blinks slowly. “Yeah. They do.”

“Really? Because you neglected to tell us that.”

Derek sighs, expression turning into something cautious and guarded. “I thought saying it too soon would blow up in my face—you wouldn’t have taken advantage of it in the beginning anyway. I figured if you really needed anything, you’d come to me regardless.”

Derek looks him the eye. Stiles thinks it’s some sort of unconscious challenge.

“Truthfully,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “I was hesitant to open my door to Scott. I couldn’t do it right away. After.” Derek inclines his head. The ‘what he did to me’ goes unspoken. “So I’m telling you now. You’re welcome here.”

It’s a nice development—a show of _some_ trust. Still, he wonders. “Do any of the others take advantage of that invitation?”

Derek breaks eye contact. “Not too often. Which is to be expected. I’m not naïve enough to think that just because I’m their alpha that means they trust me completely. It’ll take time before they’re ready to come here on their own. I’m not going to push them.”

Yeah, Stiles thinks. Derek may be a lot of things, but naïve would never be one of them.

“I don’t know.” Stiles considers Derek’s rough demeanor and the way he conceals his face whenever it looks like he might be enjoying something. It can be off-putting—decidedly _uninviting_ and counterproductive to his intentions. “I think you might want to remind them again. I think they should spend time with you outside of this ‘official pack business’ stuff.”

Derek laughs. His mouth has a sardonic twist to it. “Oh, yeah? Is that what you think, Stiles? Look, I don’t mean this as an ‘I’m a werewolf and you’re a human’ difference, but _I grew up with this_. I _have_ been in a functional pack before and I have far more experience with understanding what I am and how werewolves work than you do. It’s arrogant and insulting for you to assume otherwise.”

Stiles doesn’t gape at him, but his mouth parts in shock. He feels the emotional blow at being so aggressively shut down at a simple suggestion. But really. This is the crux of all Derek’s failures as an alpha. His inability to fucking _listen_.

“Well,” Stiles says. His throat clogs with anger and something else he’s not ready to identify. They were going to have this out at some point. “Good we got the werewolf thing out of the way. Because I totally wasn’t talking about the fact that we’re kids or anything. Derek, _you_ might work well with being given space, but I just meant we might need some fucking guidance. Maybe we’re not all so great left to our own devices _all the fucking time_.”

Derek closes his laptop and sets it on the floor. He’s either gritting his teeth or baring them, Stiles isn’t sure which. “That’s funny coming from you considering whatever I say, whatever _guidance_ I give, you go and do the opposite.”

“Oh my God!” Stiles shouts. He throws his hands in the air. The medical tape on his shoulder pulls across his skin and now the bite there is very unhappy with him. “Fucking congratulations on being the most stubborn asshole ever!”

And there it is—the show of disrespect that makes Derek flash his eyes red in warning.

“Oh no you don’t.” Stiles meets his glare. “Let’s start with your reaction to every sentence that starts with the words ‘I think.’ You fucking flip out every time someone has input. It’s always some fucking challenge to you. You think shutting out everything everyone else says is going to help you maintain control somehow but it _doesn’t_.”

Derek’s eyes are positively burning. “I _did_ listen to you the first night. I did go to the pool and got tricked by their spell. By all appearances, you were wrong. I couldn’t have known otherwise.”

“Did you go alone?” Stiles asks.

Something in Derek’s posture wavers.

“I bet you did. You even _said_ you would. The only reason I was able to find out something was wrong was because Scott was with me. I could feel a difference in our observations and that tipped me off. But you, dude?” Stiles sneers. “You went alone and didn’t have anyone to compare what you saw—and fine, you couldn’t predict that,” he says quickly when Derek looks ready to interrupt. “But you could’ve prepared for trouble. You said yourself how plausible it was that the Maroosh were there but you didn’t think to bring any backup with you? No. Of course not. Because you do everything alone.”

“It was daylight. Why would I? They all would’ve turned to dust before—” Derek inhales noisily through his nose. “You really want to have this out now? While you’re still weak?” Derek sounds less like he’s concerned and more like he’s setting the terms of a duel.

“Can you think of a better time?” Stiles waves an arm to indicate the empty apartment. “Nice dodge by the way. I may have a shitty attention span but shiny tangents only entertain me for so long. Say it. You went to the pool by yourself and that was _stupid_.”

Derek’s eye twitches. “Alright. I’ll admit that was stupid. But you have to admit the same thing. Going off to the Maroosh nest with just Boyd? That was more than fucking reckless.” Derek lets go of a deep breath. His voice is steady and unyielding. “If you don’t listen to anything else, you listen to this. You won’t be pulling a stunt like that again. This is your first and final warning. I’m not just going to punish you by keeping you in the warehouse. I will fucking oust you. I really don’t want to do that—you’re in deep. Removing you could break us for a while. But lives come first. I won’t have you endangering anyone’s life, including yours. Do you understand?”

Stiles is surprised by an ultimatum. He’s more surprised by the insinuation that he did what he did just to be difficult and disobedient. “I understand that you’ll take extreme measures because you don’t know how to handle the problem so you just avoid it.”

Derek groans, thoroughly frustrated. “You don’t get it. I’ll protect the others from paying for your mistakes and I’ll protect you from having any of their deaths on your conscience. And if the only way I can _keep you_ _alive_ is by distancing you from supernatural business, then that’s what I’ll do.” Derek’s eyes have gone back to green.

Stiles considers that. Because what the hell can he say to such an earnest declaration to keep him safe? As much as he appreciates hearing that, as thrilled as it makes him to hear something like that from _Derek_ , he has to fight that logic.

“If lives come first, then what was I supposed to do? I knew you were wrong and that meant those kids were going to die. I went to you _twice_ and you didn’t listen the second time—the time I had something solid. If I had tried a third time, would it have made a difference?” Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t think so. You’re so wrapped up in what Peter tells you that you don’t rely on anyone else.”

Now Derek looks considerate. He watches Stiles silently, mouth grim and taut.

Stiles continues because it’s clear to him that Derek’s silence betrays his inability to defend himself against that reasoning. “If lives come first, then I did what I thought was right. You didn’t leave me much of a choice. This dictator thing you’ve got going on? This ‘my authority is law’ thing? It’s not working. Especially when it doesn’t seem to apply to Peter.”

And then Stiles remembers something Mimi told him. He remembers her cackling laugh. ‘ _You’re more important than the alpha!_ ’

Stiles doesn’t know about ‘more important’ but he knows he has something—something more than Peter at any rate. “You need someone to challenge your decisions. And it can’t be Peter. He was easy to go to because—” Stiles cuts off. Talking about family around Derek was something of a taboo. Best to avoid that sore spot. “But he isn’t reliable. Not anymore. He’s like the little devil on your shoulder.”

Stiles closes his eyes, wincing as he rolls his bad shoulder. He’s starting to tense up and aggravate his injury. “Isaac is probably the only one who’s indifferent to Peter. Scott hates him, I hate him, Erica’s on my side and now I’m willing to bet Boyd is too. Jackson may think I’m scum on the bottom of shit but given the choice between me and Peter? I think he’d pick me. I never maimed Lydia. You and I share a crown, man, whether you like it or not.”   

“You seem to think this is a good thing,” Derek says. And he’s back on the defensive. Great. “But you’re dividing their loyalties between you and me. I know what Erica said this afternoon. Isaac told me. That’s not good, Stiles. That’s exactly the kind of thing I’ve been trying to avoid by taking full control. Think about what kind of message that sends to the others.”  

“And what kind of message does it send that the one going against you is _constantly_ defending you and _always_ standing in your corner!” Stiles says. God, the pain is coming back. Maybe he should have another dose of that potion crap. “Where the fuck do you think they’d all be if you failed, Derek? They’d lose their faith in you completely and they’d need a leader, so they’d be forced into Peter’s arms. Which means the three of us—Scott, Jackson, and me—would run like hell.”

“You’re saying you think Peter wants me to fail.”

“I don’t know.” Stiles sighs. “All I can say for sure is that I don’t want you to. Why do you think I—” Stiles waves a hand and makes a frustrated growl.

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. And so the realization hits him. “You nearly got yourself killed like a moron for me?”

“Partially,” Stiles mutters. “I also did it for all the little boys and girls out there. You know, the ones in _comas_?”

Derek sweeps a hand over his face. He lets it rest over his eyes but Stiles can see his mouth. He’s not exactly grinning but it’s close. It’s _so_ close. “What the fuck am I going to do with you?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He already answered that question earlier.

“So you want to be the angel on my shoulder, huh?” Derek asks. There’s a wry curve to his mouth. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Probably not,” Stiles says. “It’s more likely that I’ll be another devil. I promise I’ll only stab you in the neck with my pitchfork and not up your ass like Peter.”

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles ducks his head, smiling. Not that he would mind sticking something up—you know, what? No. That’s such a horrible innuendo. He hopes Derek didn’t take it that way.

The pain in his shoulder flares up and it’s like an activation beacon for his other injuries. His leg and side respond with searing flashes of pain. Stiles hisses, reaching for the jam jar of gritty honey goop. He puts it to his lips and throws it back. When approximately a spoonful slides into his mouth, he swallows it with a shudder. He definitely doesn’t think about the texture of slugs.

He gags.

Derek leans down to grab his laptop off the floor and gets up. He sits beside Stiles on the couch. “Swing your legs up.”

Stiles does as he’s told. He’s sitting with his lower back pressed against the armrest as he twists his legs to occupy the remainder of the couch. Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ bare ankle. It startles him. He’s ready to pull away, embarrassed.

But Derek says, “I can take your pain for twenty minutes. Is that enough time for Deaton’s medicine to kick in?”

Stiles shrugs. It doesn’t hurt. “I guess. I’ve only had it once and then I fell asleep.”

“So go to sleep.”

Stiles studies Derek. His head is down, looking at whatever is displayed on the screen of his laptop. He’s not really paying attention, which is good because heat starts to creep up Stiles’ neck and into his ears.

God, crushes fucking suck. Couldn’t his emotions just hand him an application? Please check yes or no if you’d like to possess feelings for this person. NO. Thanks for taking this survey, now I’ll go fucking jump off a cliff.

“So you’re going to listen to what I have to say from now on, right?” Stiles asks.

Derek looks at him like he’s hoping Stiles will disappear. “Yes, Stiles.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Now that wasn’t very convincing. How am I supposed to trust that you understand the benefits of collaboration if you sound like I muscled you into agreeing?”

Derek is unimpressed. “You couldn’t muscle me into anything.”

“Derek,” Stiles says, flat and annoyed.

“Stiles,” Derek returns easily.  

“ _Derek_.”

Derek falls back against the couch hard and looks up at the ceiling, like he’s praying to it. “For fuck’s sake, _shut up_. What do you want, flowers and a card?”

“If the card professes your sincerest apologies and utmost gratitude, then yeah. That would be nice.”

Derek stares at him. “Don’t push it.”

Stiles snorts. “Have you met me? I’m the kid who always pushes it. I thought _pushing it_ was why you kept me around.” The hot hand on his ankle flinches. Derek gives him a familiar cautious expression. Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, that wasn’t an innuendo. At least not an intended one.”

“With you it’s hard to tell. Everything out of your mouth sounds suggestive.”

“Everything is an innuendo if you make it one. If your mind’s dirty enough, I guess.” Stiles shrugs, smiling a little.

Derek shakes his head and turns his attention back to his laptop. “Not for me. I don’t sound like that.”

Stiles laughs. “You don’t need to say anything—you just stand there and voila, innuendo made.”

Derek’s eyes flick briefly at him before returning to the screen. “That’s what I’m talking about. Are you _flirting_ with me?”

“Not intentionally.”

Derek pauses. “What does that even mean?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Right.” Derek keeps his eyes firmly on the screen. “Do me a favor and render yourself unconscious.”

“I’m not tired,” Stiles says. Which isn’t really true. He’s just enjoying Derek’s confusion even if it is at the expense of his own embarrassment. He yawns and totally spoils his lie.

“Uh huh.”

“I’m guessing I’ll be staying here for the full moon?” Stiles asks.

It comes out like a non-sequitur but it has been on his mind for a while. The full moon. They’ve been dreading it since the Maroosh’s second victim, when they finally identified what they were. He normally just hangs out in his house while the others get chained up or, in the case of the wolves with more control, stew in their heightened emotional—and sensory?—state in the warehouse. But he feels weird being in Derek’s apartment by himself.

“No,” Derek says. “You’ll be coming with me to the warehouse.” He clicks something on his laptop.

Stiles makes a strangled squawk. “What? Are you serious? Won’t they kill me?”

“You’ll be close to me so you’ll be fine.” Derek says this like he’s not really listening. “It’s not good to leave an injured pack member unattended while the rest of us are in a vulnerable state. Or distracted, in my case and Peter’s.”

“Will Peter be there?” Stiles isn’t looking forward to seeing him any time soon.

“I don’t know. The others have been getting better so he might not show up. Boyd and Jackson are the only two who haven’t been able to maintain control. Although Boyd is improving.” Derek scratches his chin. “Erica is still a tossup. Sometimes she’s good, sometimes she’s violent, but a manageable violent. Isaac is neutral. Which is very—”

“Isaac,” Stiles fills in.

Derek hides a smile. “Yeah. Scott is good. He’s had more time to adjust. He almost has it down. You could probably stay by him without a problem.”

“Probably,” Stiles repeats dubiously.

Derek sighs. “I’d prefer it if you stayed by me. Scott hangs around Isaac most of the time and Isaac might be on edge if you get too close to him.”

Stiles nods. It really is like dealing with animals. (And he will _never_ tell Derek he thought that.)

The twenty minutes must be up because Derek removes his hand from Stiles’ ankle. There isn’t any pain, just a residual sting that feels kind of like a paper cut.

Stiles grabs the remote that’s tucked behind him, in between the armrest and seat cushion, and turns on the TV. Best to have something other than Derek to stare at. The channel is tuned to the local news. They’re doing a recap on the ‘miraculous’ recovery of the seven comatose kids.

Just to be annoying, he stretches out his legs a little more and digs his toes into Derek’s thigh.

Derek sighs. “Yes. You did a good job.”

“Thank you,” Stiles simpers. “I hope you haven’t punished Boyd now that you’ve realized why we had to do what we did.”

Derek doesn’t say anything right away. “I had a talk with him.”

“Derek. Please tell me you didn’t spank your puppy.”

“If anyone deserves a spanking, Stiles—” Derek cuts off with a derisive laugh.

Grinning, Stiles lets his head fall back against the top of the couch. That’s too easy. “Are you offering?”

“No.” Derek hits the keys on his laptop a little harder than necessary. “And do we need to talk about this?”

“Talk about what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Derek still isn’t looking at him. “About what you’re doing.”

“You mean joking around?” Stiles frowns.

“But you’re not joking, are you?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Don’t take it so seriously. I do this with Scott too.”

Time to pretend his heart rate didn’t give him away. Look at that, they’re selling vibrating shoehorns for $19.99. Well, that doesn’t seem like a thinly disguised sex toy or anything.

“Even if you are just joking,” and Derek says this in a way that doesn’t sound like he really believes that, “I’m telling you it’s not going to happen for three reasons. One, I’m too old for you. Connected to that is reason number two. You’re underage. And three, it’s just not a good idea. If it didn’t work out, it would affect the pack badly.”

Stiles blinks at the TV. His heart rate must be through the roof now because those weren’t the reasons he thought Derek would use to turn him down when he found out (which was bound to happen because when it came to love/romance/sexual attraction/whatever Stiles is about as subtle as a loaded gun in your face). Well, the first two were expected but Derek didn’t mention one crucial fact.

“That’s it?” Stiles asks.

Derek gives him a cool look. “Did you want more reasons? Because I have them.”

“It’s not a problem that I’m a guy?”

“Not really.”

It never occurred to Stiles that Derek might not be straight. “So you’re _bi_?”

“I guess,” Derek scratches his cheek. “I’ve been in more relationships with women, but I’ve been with men too.” Derek glances at him from the corner of his eye. “ _Don’t_ let that encourage you.”

Again, Stiles is surprised. Derek is sharing personal information. With him.

Derek looks at him. There’s a twist to his mouth that betrays his amusement, but it’s one of those reactions no one wants to have while they’re trying to be stern, and to mention it would end whatever it is he and Derek are doing. Because this isn’t just talking. Stiles doesn’t know how to define what this is.

“Did that shock you?” Derek asks.

“Yeah. I just didn’t think you’d ever say anything personal without someone ripping it out of your mouth.” Stiles regrets the words as soon as he says them. Fuck.

Derek takes it in stride. “This isn’t something I see worth keeping a secret. At least, not for me. Not compared to everything else I have to keep secret.”

Stiles nods numbly.

He realizes that Derek also never said ‘no’ because he wasn’t interested. Not that that necessarily means anything. Stiles has a knack for picking on technicalities and using them as tools. He could just be seeing a convenient, self-interested loophole. He doesn’t want to challenge it. He likes having a bit of hope; he doesn’t want to give Derek the chance to say definitively that he’s not interested.

And what the fuck _for_? Stiles never anticipated reciprocal feelings. His plan was to wait this out, to get over it before he humiliated himself, which, ha, too late for that. He never meant anything serious about this.

Except Scott was right—he kind of did. He doesn’t half-ass feelings.

Except this was never about that stupid time Derek sat on him (seriously, this would’ve been pathetic if it had). He always found Derek interesting, a curiosity he wanted to get to know. And Derek may be an asshole, but he’s an asshole in all the ways Stiles is, in all the ways he appreciates and _likes_.

And Stiles is a fucking fantastic judge of character and knows that Derek cares in all the ways he can understand—like he can’t help it, like it’s not even a choice, never an obligation but a duty that means everything.

And this is so much worse than anything Stiles felt for Lydia because he’s not looking at a distance this time—he’s right in the center of it all.

So he tells Derek the truth. “You have nothing to worry about. I never expected anything from you.”

With that, he stuffs all but one of his blankets behind him, to lie against. He tries to keep pressure off of his side and shoulder even though he isn’t in much pain. He watches TV, hoping it’ll lull him to sleep.

He changes the channel when a report of a car accident comes on.

 

***

(Full Moon)

 

Stiles wakes to bright sunshine in his face. It’s a hateful thing—seriously, didn’t anyone think to draw the blinds?—and then he realizes that once the sun goes down, he’ll be locked in a room with six (possibly seven) werewolves, and at least three could be hostile. Suddenly, he’s not so tired.

He sits up on the couch and can’t think of a single thing to do. He swallows some of the honey goop. And yeah, there’s no getting used to that. He’s just acquiring the skill to take it faster.

Derek and Isaac have the day off of work despite it being a Monday so they’re lounging around; Derek is in the armchair fiddling with his laptop and Isaac is in his customary place on the floor at the opposite end of the couch. It looks like they’ve been up for a while. The TV is on but the volume is set so low that Stiles can barely hear it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Isaac’s hands gripping his knees.

“Hey, your fingers are back,” Stiles says.

Isaac gives him a flat, bored look. “Your powers of observation are astounding.”

Stiles resists the urge to stick his tongue out. He checks the time on his phone. It’s almost two.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I’ve been sleeping so much that it’s gross even for a lazy teenager.”

“It’s good for you,” Derek says. “You need it.”

Stiles supposes that’s true. “So when are we heading over to the warehouse?”

Isaac looks sharply at him and then at Derek. Derek responds by raising an eyebrow. Isaac seems oddly settled by that and returns his attention to the TV.

Okay then.

“Around seven. That’ll leave us with a couple of hours to prepare before the full moon hits,” Derek answers.

Hits. Yeah. Like an asteroid.

“Right.” Stiles looks down at his phone again. He has a message from Scott about stopping by to change his dressings. That’ll be interesting with Derek here.

Stiles remembers that he should call his dad to reassure him that his son hasn’t been ax-murdered by what he believes may be a cult of serial killers (granted, he’s just joking—sort of). It’s the middle of a weekday so it’ll be a short conversation. Or one that won’t happen at all if his dad has been called away.

***

“You sure you’re alright?” his dad asks once they reach the point where there’s nothing left to say.

Stiles knows that tone. It’s the ‘I know you’re probably about to a lie to me and I’m resigned to this fact’ voice. It’s a rather specific category, but it’s such a frequently used tone that Stiles has had the time to think of an appropriate title.

“Yep. Scott’s even going to be stopping by to hang out for a while. It’ll be great. The three musketeers and all that. Seriously. Marathon videogame parties are what summer is for.”

“Right,” his dad says. “You have fun. Stay out of trouble and take care of yourself.”

“How much trouble can I get in playing videogames? Seriously.”

His dad laughs. “I’m sure you’ll find a way. See you later, son.”

“Bye. Love you.”

“I love you too.”

When Stiles ends the call and looks up, Derek and Isaac are preoccupied with their respective electronics. He pretends not to notice the tension in their postures or the vacant gleam in their eyes. It makes him wonder if they’re remembering the last time they said those words. Or the last time they heard them.

 

***

 

When Scott comes by, he hesitates in the doorway at the sight of Derek. Derek waves him in.

Scott takes a seat beside Stiles and pulls a kit of gauze and medical tape out of his backpack. He makes quick work of the dressings. There’s less blood on the gauze so he moves quicker than he did the day before.

“These are looking really good,” Scott says.

Stiles studies the bite on his side. It’s a mangled mess of black, purple, and green bruises, almost-black scabby, dried blood, and messy stitches. Oh yeah, he feels ready to strut down a catwalk. Frankenstein’s monster, eat your heart out. He turns a dull look on Scott.

“Compared to what they were before,” Scott says, rolling his eyes. “They’ve healed a lot. I bet you’ll be ready to have these out in a few days. That’s, like, really fast.”

Stiles laughs. “God. You remind me so much of your mom right now.”

Scott snickers. “Just call me Doctor McCall.”

“Suits you.”

Once Scott finishes up, he immediately heads for the door.

“You could stay for a bit. Derek said it’s okay,” Stiles says.

Derek doesn’t look like he’s paying attention but he’s nodding so he must be. Isaac looks kind of hopeful. Stiles prays that’s just his imagination because he’d hate for Isaac to be disappointed. And lonely. God, he’s starting to see a resemblance between him and Derek.

Scott glances between Stiles, Derek, and Isaac. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “No. Can’t. It’s just—can’t. I’ll see you guys later. At the warehouse.” He flees.

Thankfully, Isaac doesn’t seem disappointed. The corners of his mouth are turned up slightly. It’s the smallest smile Stiles has ever seen. He wonders if it’s just a trick of the light.

“Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t really know why he’s apologizing. He doesn’t even think Scott did anything wrong. It just seems like it needs to be said.

Derek shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

 

***

 

The remaining hours dwindle away. And then it’s time to get in Derek’s car. And ride to his potential death. Stiles is just brimming with excitement.

“Scott said I’m doing better, so can’t I just stay here?” Stiles asks as Isaac shuts off the TV and disappears into his room to change into a ratty shirt and a sliced up pair of jeans. Guess wearing the same thing every full moon saves on having to constantly buy new clothes. Very practical.

“Nope,” Derek says. He changes into a shirt that’s decorated with blood stains.

“Aren’t you worried about being pulled over and looking like you just killed someone?” Stiles can’t help but ask.

“Get,” Derek says, shooing him out the door.

“Then can I just stay in the car? If something comes to get me, you’ll be able to hear me and you’ll be right there.”

“Nope.”

They head down the steps in silence. Stiles doesn’t bring his bag with him. He doesn’t want to risk the life of his precious laptop. Risking his own is bad enough. Isaac gets in the back of the Camaro and Stiles rides shotgun.

As Derek backs out of his parking space, he asks, “What are you so afraid of? They’re not going to do anything to you while I’m there.”

Stiles taps his fingers against the side of the door. He doesn’t say anything.

Derek doesn’t get it. It’s not really the threat of physical harm that scares Stiles. God—if that was his worst fear, he would’ve run for the hills when Jackson broke his rib. Or before that, when Gerard Argent beat the hell out of him. Maybe even before that when Matt stepped on his windpipe. Maybe even a time before _that_. He has had his ass handed to him so many times that physical harm was part of the fucking job description (whatever job that was).

No, he’s terrified of looking into the eyes of someone he knows and seeing some _thing_ staring back, like the human in them has been erased, like they’ve been possessed. He’s afraid of seeing a monster inside of them. He’s afraid they’ll disappear.

He could never confess that to Derek.

 

***

The full moon rises.

It’s as Derek said; Scott and Isaac maintain solid control while the other three are ready to tear loose from their chains. Erica’s control has slipped tonight. Isn’t that just Stiles’ luck?

They’re in the warehouse basement and Jackson, Boyd, and Erica are wrapped in enough chains to form a metal cocoon. The ends of the chains are looped through heavy metal fixtures bolted to the wall. At least Derek was smart enough to leave the support beams alone.

And inevitably, after a few hours, the chains wrench apart under the stress of werewolf strength. And then there are three snarling werewolves loose in the warehouse.

Stiles is terrified.

Fortunately, Isaac and Scott are able to restrain Jackson—who is by far the most rabid of the bunch—and Derek has Boyd by the back of the neck. Which leaves Erica free.

And she’s standing right above Stiles. She pushes him down, aggressively but also with a surprising amount of care for a crazed werewolf. Stiles is on his back, staring up into bright gold animal eyes.

And Derek isn’t doing anything.

Stiles doesn’t dare try to sit up. Erica growls at him, snapping her teeth remarkably close to his face.

“Erica,” Derek warns with barely a trace of his alpha voice. Still, he’s not _doing_ anything. He’s just standing there with his hand at the back of Boyd’s neck, watching.

Erica backs off. With his eyes trained on her, Stiles cautiously levers himself back into a seated position. Again, she knocks him down, backs off, and waits.

“Erica,” Derek says. He’s grinning. Stiles doesn’t think he has ever seen Derek so happy. “Stiles doesn’t want to play. I’m sure Boyd could be persuaded though.”

And with that, Derek pushes Boyd at her. The shove gives Boyd enough momentum to leap ten feet in one stride. He charges at Erica, slams into her with his full weight, and makes her go flying at the wall. In the air, she recovers control of her body at the last second, twisting so the soles of her feet connect with the wall while her legs are bent. She springs off of it, lunging at Boyd. They collide and he goes hurdling into the other wall.

And then Erica and Boyd proceed to play the most violent game of tag Stiles has ever seen.

Derek turns to the other problem in the room. “Scott, you have to let Jackson go.”

“Are you serious?” Scott manages to say while he has Jackson on his stomach. His arms are incapacitated by Scott’s grip. Isaac is sitting on Jackson’s legs, holding them down with the weight of his body.

“You’re making it worse. It’s because it’s you he’s submitting to. As soon as I reach you, get off him as fast as you can.”

Derek leaves Erica and Boyd to their game and rushes to subdue Jackson. Once Derek has a hand at the back of Jackson’s neck, Scott and Isaac scramble off, sprinting in the opposite direction, toward Stiles. Jackson rears up, fighting Derek’s hold. Derek definitely uses the full strength of his alpha voice this time, releasing one deep, guttural roar—like the one he used on Isaac when he tried to kill Stiles. His volume tapers down into something soothing, causing Jackson to relent against the hand at the back of his neck and the knee pushing into his spine.

Scott takes a seat by Stiles and Isaac takes a seat on Scott’s other side.

“What the fuck is that all about?” Stiles asks.

Scott’s lips press into a thin line. It’s kind of fascinating how he’s able to accomplish that around all the fangs in his mouth. He pulls out his phone instead of answering.

Stiles gets a text. From Scott.

_cant say with d there he’ll hear txting instead_

Scott keeps typing. When he stops, Stiles gets another text.

_jackson having a hard time becuz he doesnt have any1 in pack to rely on. I have u e has b and v/v isaac has d_

So Jackson is extra volatile because he hasn’t bonded with anyone in the pack. He doesn’t have an anchor outside of Lydia. Fabulous. Stiles doesn’t see that changing anytime soon.

Scott sends another text.

_d is trying to be an anchor for j but you cant really force that. not that ds trying to do that but hes the only 1 to calm j down. j is in danger of going omega_

Stiles knew Jackson’s inability to play well with others was going to come back and bite him in the ass. He wonders if Jackson would be better off in a different pack. Judging by the determined look on Derek’s face, the stubbornness that makes up 79 percent of his personality, and hisburdening sense of responsibility, Derek would never let Jackson go. That would be like giving up on him and Stiles is beginning to learn that Derek doesn’t give up on anyone. Peter is proof enough for that. Unless Jackson requests to leave, Derek’s going to continue fighting a long, uphill battle.

 

***

Morning comes.

Stiles says goodbye to Scott outside the warehouse, thumping him on the shoulder. Scott makes a move to hug him but remembers his injury before accidentally pressing a hand into his bad shoulder. Poor Scott. His werewolf dependency instinct is kicking in again. At least Scott seems to have a better reign over it than he did during the school year.

Stiles kind of knows how Scott feels. He misses hanging out with him too. 

Erica and Boyd get into the McCall mobile instead of Jackson’s Porsche. Which is different. They never ride with Scott.

Stiles looks back to where Jackson and Derek are lingering behind everyone at the warehouse entrance. Jackson keeps his head down the entire time, avoiding eye contact. His shoulders are hunched and rigid, like the full moon hasn’t entirely worn off and he’s ready to launch into an attack with the right trigger.

Derek tosses his keys to Isaac. He catches them easily and unlocks the car, motioning for Stiles to follow.

Stiles watches them. He can’t see what they’re saying. He can barely see their lips moving. Asking Isaac feels too inappropriate, too invasive, so he doesn’t. When Jackson does head down the stairs, away from the entrance and Derek and towards his car, Stiles catches sight of him then. He looks sort of relieved.  


	2. Chapter 2

 

**ESTABLISHMENT**

II.

(Fourth Day at Derek’s)

 

Derek is a _bastard_.

Stiles decides this when he wakes up the next morning and sees Derek in nothing but a pair of loose cotton pajama bottoms, heading to the bathroom to take a shower. After Derek gets out, a cloud of steam big enough to cover all of fucking California glides into the room with a vengeance. It’s like 85 degrees in the apartment.

And there’s Derek—shirtless, and damp, tousling his hair dry. 

 _Fuck_.

Stiles can’t take his eyes off him. He grabs one of the blankets by his feet and pulls it into his lap.

Derek is also a bastard because he had a fan in his room all this time. A fan. In his room. He’s nice enough to set it up in the living room now that it’s no longer catering to his delicate werewolf needs. Jackass.

“Let the injured one suffer in the heat,” Stiles says as Derek takes a seat in the armchair with his laptop. Derek rolls his eyes but doesn’t look up. “You can tell Scott that I survived my injuries only to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West on your couch. If I die of heat stroke, I’ll haunt you by unplugging all the fans for the rest of your life. All of them.”

Huffing, Derek gets up and positions the fan to blow directly on Stiles.

“I changed my mind. You’re an angel.” 

Stiles sighs and enjoys the weird way the fan distorts his voice.

He’s ready to sigh again just to play with it when Derek says, “I will actually kill you.”

“So maybe not an _angel_.”

Isaac leaves his bedroom and stares at the open bathroom door. He grabs the remote by Stiles’ head without looking at him and sits on the floor by the opposite end of the couch. He glowers at the steam like it personally insulted him.

“Dammit, Derek, why do you take boiling hot showers in the _summer_?”

“Same reason you feel the need to leave dirty dishes in the sink after I washed them all.”

“So you do this to get back at me?”

“No, I do it because I enjoy hot showers as much as you enjoy eating at the weirdest fucking hours of the day.” Derek sets his laptop aside, gets up again, and goes into his room. He comes out wearing a t-shirt. “Speaking of food, it’s too hot to turn on the stove so I’m ordering out at Krissy’s.”

Stiles loves Krissy’s. It’s the best diner in town mostly because they serve breakfast like a fast food chain.

Derek moves away from his door and puts his hands on Isaac’s head, viciously ruffling his hair into a disaster.

“Urgh! Fucker!” Isaac growls.

Stiles knows that Derek and Erica aren’t actually related, but he thinks that she may have inherited her penchant for hair-ruffling from Derek. Stiles laughs until Derek takes a threatening step in his direction.

Bad innuendoes and mock flirting seem to hurt Derek’s soul, so he bats his eyelashes and says, “Be gentle with me.”

And then Derek is stepping away from him so fast that Stiles doubles over laughing. Which turns out to be very bad for him. The burning pain in his side reminds him he has another dose of honey potion to suffer through. By the time he’s done with it, Derek has recovered his composure.

“What do you guys want?” he asks.

Stiles and Isaac give their list—it’s a long order and probably very expensive. Stiles reaches into his bag for his wallet but it’s not there. It has to be in the jeep.

His motive must be obvious because Derek shakes his head and says, “Don’t worry about it.” He grabs his keys off of the protruding nail beside the front door and leaves.

When Stiles looks back at Isaac, he’s smirking.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“Nothing. Just try not to jump him while I’m here.”

Stiles kicks all of his blankets (except the one in his lap) onto Isaac’s head.

 

***

 

A good morning turns into a good day. Derek returns, they eat, Scott comes over to look at Stiles’ wounds and says he’ll take the stitches out tomorrow, and Erica and Boyd stop by for a visit before Scott has a chance to make an escape. They all end up staying for a while. Derek even manages to drag Jackson over. He’s out with Lydia so she makes a rare appearance after being reassured that Peter is out and won’t be back for some time (which is kind of a lie since they don’t know for sure how long he’ll be gone).

Lydia gives Stiles an intimidating once over when she arrives. He’s not wearing a shirt so the dressings on his side and shoulder are visible. He quickly pulls a t-shirt from his bag and throws it on. Anything to avoid her scrutiny.

“Stiles, you look rather,” she pauses, tilting her head, “mangled.” She slaps Jackson hard on the arm. He doesn’t flinch, probably didn’t even feel it. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

Jackson shrugs. Lydia locks her eyes with his and they engage in an intense staring contest. “Later,” she promises ominously.

Lydia takes a seat on the couch beside Stiles and Jackson wedges in between them, raising an eyebrow and daring him to make a comment. Stiles rolls his eyes because really—he so isn’t in the mood to start a pissing contest when it’s too hot to wear skin.

Before the tension evolves into a dispute, Derek follows Jackson’s example and slides between him and Stiles.

Fortunately, Lydia is small so there’s slightly more space than the last time they attempted to fit this many people on the couch. But Stiles winds up pinned against the armrest. The length of his body aligns with the length of Derek’ and his body heat runs from the middle of Stiles’ calf all the way up to his shoulder. 

What was that line from Harry Potter? You’re going to miserable but you’re going to be happy about it? It’s rather fitting. It’s fucking hot as hell in the room—worse now that he’s crammed beside a werewolf—and Derek did the whole ‘letting him down easy’ routine, which makes this horribly awkward. But damn if Stiles isn’t enjoying the opportunity to be this close.

There’s nothing good on TV but that doesn’t seem to matter. Everyone’s making easy conversation, talking loudly. Even Jackson is participating, which is doubtlessly due to Lydia’s calming presence. They’ll be lucky if the neighbors don’t complain. Then again, they could just have Derek take his shirt off and answer the door if anyone comes knocking. That would put _any_ complaint to rest.

Stiles reaches in his right pocket for his phone and the action causes his knuckles to brush against Derek’s thigh.

Derek shoots him a suspicious look. He turns away before Stiles can communicate ‘no, I’m not taking advantage of this and molesting you, I just wanted my phone’ with eyebrows and exaggerated facial expressions. Whatever. Derek can think what he wants.

Actually, he wanted his phone so he could send Derek a text. _Too bad lydia can’t be around all the time for jackson. He’s better with her here._

Stiles doesn’t know if Derek will check his phone once they all leave, which would make the text totally useless if he has the chance to say this to Derek’s face later. But then he hears Derek’s phone go off in his pocket. Derek checks it, pauses, and then starts typing.

_yeah. the issue is peter. she wont come around if hes here and im not kicking him out._

Stiles sighs. Every consideration seems to prioritize Peter above everything else. Stiles doesn’t think Derek really intends for that but sometimes it feels that way.

_Maybe you could split pack nights? Make one here and one in the warehouse. Lydia comes to the one here and peter goes to the warehouse._

Derek reads it and cringes.

Stiles rolls his eyes. He types: _What’s so bad about that idea?_

Derek shakes his head. _nothing. its a good idea. ill consider it._

“Are you saying things that can’t be shared with the rest of class?” Lydia asks out the blue.

The question makes Stiles jump and brings his surroundings back into focus. She’s leaning forward, watching them with a predator’s interest. Her eyes and grin are wide and sharp. Maybe Derek doesn’t want her around because she’d try to commandeer his alpha status. Which wouldn’t end well but would be funny as hell to watch.

Everyone’s staring at them.

Stiles swallows. “We’re sort of arguing.”

“You’re having a text argument in a crowded room?” Lydia asks. It’s ironic that in a room full of werewolves, Stiles feels like _she’s_ the one who would tear him apart and eat him alive. “How _cute_.”

Stiles and Derek put their phones away to avoid any stupid assumptions.

After a few more hours, everyone agrees to head home. Derek doesn’t take long to consider Stiles’ suggestion—he’s already scheduling another pack night at his apartment and suggesting places to park before they piss off the other tenants by stealing too many spaces (right now, Stiles’ jeep, Jackson’s Porsche, and Scott’s car take up an extra three).

Jackson and Lydia are the first to leave and Isaac, Scott, Erica, Boyd, and Stiles stay put as Derek follows them out, presumably to speak to them in private about arranging Peter’s absence so she can come around.

Stiles doesn’t have to imagine that conversation. He already knows it—he already _had_ it.

When Derek comes back inside, he looks Stiles in the eye and nods so slightly it’s barely noticeable. But Stiles sees it because he was watching for it. Of course, everyone else probably heard the whole thing.

Scott offers to drive Erica and Boyd home and they accept, leaving Stiles, Derek, and Isaac alone. Isaac watches TV, Derek moves to the armchair with his laptop, and Stiles takes out his laptop to play around on. He wonders how many werewolf movies are in the world and if Derek would find them hilarious or infuriating.

Besides the droning of some mindless TV show, everything is silent—a pleasant silent.

 

***

(Fifth Day at Derek’s)

 

Peter comes back when Derek is at work.

Stiles wonders if he planned that timing, if he was hoping Stiles would be alone so he could get his petty revenge. Fortunately, Isaac stays with him—on the couch this time, not on the floor—but the stiffness of Isaac’s spine and the way his eyes carefully avoid falling on Peter make it pretty obvious that he’d rather be in his room.

As far as Stiles is concerned, Peter already got his revenge. He woke up thinking that, wow, his pain was almost gone and he hadn’t had any of the honey potion yet. Things were looking up.

And now they’re looking down.

Peter is reading something on his laptop (probably bestiary related—the man is obsessed) in Derek’s chair. Without looking away from the screen, he says, “You know, if you make that face every time you see me, it’s going to get stuck that way.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and slumps back against the couch. “Thanks for the warning. I think I’ll just keep on doing it.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth ticks, verging on a smirk.   

“So,” Stiles says, waving a hand. “You have a body bag prepared for me because I hurt your feelings?”

Peter glances up at him then. And the look on his face is so condescending and disappointed, like Stiles tried to win a chess match by saying ‘I know what you are but what am I?’ “I don’t want to kill you. I don’t even want you dead.”

“Really.” He calls bullshit.

“Yes, Stiles,” Peter sighs. “You’ve found yourself in a very unique role. One I’m sure you never knew existed and Derek never thought should be filled. It’s rather ironic that you’ve been satisfying all of its duties despite not knowing anything about it.”

“Why, Peter. What on earth are you talking about.” Stiles uses a tone like he’s reading off a card in an infomercial. It doesn’t hide his quickened pulse.

This carefully crafted hook is a hint that Peter knows exactly how to manipulate him into paying attention. Peter knows how to starve curiosity— _starve_ not _feed_ ; feeding implies some sort of gratification, but starving amplifies the need for gratification, the need to know.

“Do you know what a den mother is, Stiles?”

Oh no. Oh no, this is not going where he thinks it’s going. “Did we become a Girl Scout troupe and no one told me?”

“An unfortunate double of the term but one that still fits, I think, if they function as a support and guide to a group.”

“I thought that was the role of druid emissaries,” Stiles says.

“It is. Druids may be some of our closest allies, but they’re outsiders. You could say a den mother is an internal emissary. One that helps regulate the mental and emotional stability of the pack. A complimenting force to the alpha.”

Stiles grits his teeth. “Look, I’m not ‘mommy’ to Derek’s ‘daddy.’ Let’s get that straight right away. I’m not going to wear an apron and pour kibble for the puppies and say ‘honey, how was your night?’ every full moon.”

Isaac coughs over a laugh.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Are we _really_ resorting to gender stereotypes?” Stiles should tell Peter that if he continues to sneer all the time, his face is going to get stuck that way. “Fine. ‘Den keeper’ if you want to cling to your fragile masculinity. Either way, packs function with a series of hierarchies and den _mothers,_ ” and Peter emphasizes the word to be spiteful, “are very high in one of those hierarchies. It’s a position that puts you in a lot of danger.”

And that stops Stiles short. He doesn’t ask ‘how’ out loud, but he’s sure his face does that for him.

“If anyone wanted to take out this pack all they’d have to do,” Peter extends his arm and waves it, his hand slashing across the air, “is kill you.”

“Seriously?” Isaac interrupts. His eyes widen and sink to the floor. He probably didn’t mean to say anything. “No offense to you, Stiles, but I can’t believe we’d fall apart that easily.”

The playful tone of this conversation drains from Peter’s voice. “Do you think losing a pack member is easy? Even losing one can be crippling. But for Stiles, I’m not talking just about an emotional injury, but a systematic one.”

Something about that phrasing sounds familiar.

“Still don’t believe me?” Peter is addressing Isaac. “How many times have there been pack meetings in Derek’s home before Stiles? None. How many times have you felt a feedback link with your fellow betas before Stiles? I’m going to bet none.”

Stiles has no idea what that means.

“The only reason Scott is here is because of Stiles and you’ve been itching for a playmate. Erica and Boyd are inseparable. Jackson is unapproachable. I’m—well.” Peter tilts his head, grinning. “I suppose I’m also rather unapproachable. Scott taught all of you a few things about control. The only reason Erica was willing to listen was because of her connection to Stiles. And Boyd because of his connection to Erica, because of her connection to Stiles. And you because of Boyd and Erica, which leads back to Stiles. And because you three paid attention, Jackson felt inclined to as well. Do you see the common denominator in all of this?”

Isaac nods. His eyebrows are pinched together and his mouth is pursed. He’s still clearly hesitant to believe the implications of Peter’s assessment.

“And because all of you,” Peter says to Isaac and then glances at Stiles, “all of Derek’s betas, are tied to you, Stiles, you have the alpha’s ear.”

“I didn’t exactly do that on purpose,” Stiles says.

“Of course not. You fell into this position of power completely by accident, which is why it’s rather remarkable. I wish it _didn’t_ happen.” Peter’s eyes flash blue. His expression twists, loses some of its easygoing humor. “We’re a pack of wolves held together by a soft, little _fawn_. Can you understand why I have a problem with you being unturned? Our weakest pack member stands in the second highest position in the hierarchy. That’s just inviting disaster.”  

Stiles doesn’t say anything. He hates himself for glancing away. Peter will take that as a show of weakness or sign of defeat. But it isn’t. Peter hasn’t won. Stiles still has no desire to be a werewolf. There would be too many complications. Namely, his father. He couldn’t let that fall between them. It’s different with Scott and his mom. She isn’t a cop—she wouldn’t feel the need to protect the world from the boogie man. His dad would go crazy over past cases. What would he do if he made a connection to some unsolved murder and the supernatural? What _could_ he do? How helpless would he feel?

On the other hand, Peter has a point. Stiles doesn’t want this ‘den keeper’ thing either, not if it could be used to hurt everyone.

“And then there’s the other problem,” Peter says, interrupting Stiles’ reverie. His humor’s back, but it has a sadistic edge that Stiles is beginning to recognize. “About how you’re not female.”

“So all den mothers _are_ female?” Isaac asks. “You made it seem like gender didn’t matter.”

If Stiles had said that, Peter would’ve given him one of his pitying expressions.

Peter flicks his eyes to Isaac before returning to Stiles. “It doesn’t. I didn’t mean to imply that it did. I just meant it’s a shame Stiles can’t help Derek repopulate the Hale clan.”

Blood warms Stiles’ ears and face. Fucking fuck. The bastard flustered him. “I swear to God if this is some fucking ‘mating’ thing—”

Peter laughs. It’s unsettling because it sounds honest and uncalculating. Human. “No. I didn’t mean to imply that either. Some packs don’t even have them. Some larger packs have multiple. Den mothers and alphas don’t make automatic pairs but they result in them very frequently. I’d say 85 percent of the time.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and doesn’t deign that with a response. He pulls his laptop off the seat beside him and back into his lap.

“I thought you’d be happy to hear that,” Peter simpers.

Stiles’ hands freeze over his keyboard.

Of course Peter would notice—if the others knew, if Derek knew, of course Peter would’ve picked up on his feelings. Peter was far more observant than all of them. He was probably the first to realize.

No sense playing dumb around a werewolf. “Why would that make me happy? I’m not exactly Derek’s type.” Stiles doesn’t look up to gauge Peter’s reaction. He doesn’t really want to know. He doesn’t want to appear interested in what Peter has to say on the matter. Most of all, he just wants to kill this conversation.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” It’s a response that’s designed to be encouraging without giving any sort of confirmation. Stiles dismisses it. “Anyway,” Peter continues after several minutes pass. “The bottom line is that you don’t have to worry about any physical harm from me.”

And that, to Stiles, undermines everything Peter said. All of this could’ve been a ploy to lure him into a false sense of security. But he would never drop his guard, not for Peter. Silly werewolf, tricks are for kids.

He ignores Peter for the rest of night—well, until Scott comes.

Once Scott takes out his stitches, Stiles gathers up his things and says goodbye to Isaac. He sends a text to Derek thanking him for his hospitality (specifically for letting him hide from his dad).

 

***

 

The relief that hits Stiles when he collapses onto _his_ bed, in _his_ room, takes his breath away.

 

III.

 

He has breakfast with his dad the next morning. Maybe he’s an ass for preferring to sleep in, but his dad got up early to cook for both of them and Stiles isn’t enough of an ass to put his dad’s thoughtful effort to waste. Anyway, it’s good to spend time with him since it seems to happen so rarely these days.

It’s not good that his dad is blatantly checking his neck for hickeys from across the table.

Stiles fights the urge to duck his head. That would look like guilt or an effort to conceal something that doesn’t even exist. He wonders who his dad suspects he’s in some secret relationship with: Isaac or Derek? Probably Derek. Logically, he would have no reason to keep a relationship with Isaac secret. So Derek. Fuck.

He’ll beat his head into the wall later.

“Looking for vampire bites?” Stiles says around a piece of toast.

“That would explain your habit of disappearing into the night. If you start turning into a bat, then I’ll worry. But you’re close.”

Stiles continues to eat. He waits for the interrogation he knows is coming.

“Are you dating someone you think I won’t approve of?” his dad asks.

Oh-ho. Straight for the kill.

Stiles doesn’t react with a sarcastic, self-deprecating remark. “No.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

It’s nice to be able to look his dad in the eye and say ‘no’ honestly. His dad nods, apparently witnessing the absence of Stiles’ ‘lying tell.’

His dad sets the spoon in his cereal down hard inside his bowl, letting it make a loud clink. He rubs his hands down his face and over his eyes. “Then what the hell is going on with you? Just tell me. _Please_. It was something big this time, wasn’t it? It drove you away for a week.”

Thank fuck, his dad isn’t a werewolf and can’t hear the stutter in his heart rate. “Dad, I told you I was just playing videogames with—”

His dad holds up a hand. “Don’t,” he says. The word comes out harsh and bitter. “Just don’t.” He sighs. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” It sounds like a rhetorical question.

Stiles thinks of Derek and his betas—of Scott, Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and even Jackson and Peter—and how they’re doing their best to protect Beacon Hills from what the residents can’t see. He thinks of how safe it feels to be around them, to be on their side, and the security he felt two days ago when he was surrounded by everyone in Derek’s apartment. He clings to that feeling and hopes it conceals his tell when he says, “No. I’m not.”

Whatever his dad sees causes him to pause. He looks conflicted. “How did we get this way? You used to tell me everything. You used to tell me _too_ much.” He shakes his head. “Forget I said that. There’s no such thing as too much. I guess I just meant that from your point of view. Nothing’s changed about that, you know. You can still come to me. Always. With anything.”

“I know, Dad. I know that,” Stiles says. He stares at his empty plate as he finishes the last of his toast.

And it’s so tempting to give in and just confess everything. All of these secrets and lies sit heavy on his shoulders. But his dad is wrong—everything _has_ changed. Stiles has to remind himself that he’s doing this for his dad’s sake.

And maybe it won’t be for forever. Maybe it’ll be just a little while more until the pack is stronger, more stable, in control. Maybe there will be a point where he can say to his dad ‘it’s supernatural business and it’s being handled’ and his dad will never have to worry.

Until then, he has to distract his dad from this. A half-truth (or maybe a ‘sacrificial truth’ would be more accurate) is the best kind of lie. That’s what he tells himself. But maybe he just wants to finally take the chance to unload _something_. Say _one_ honest thing.

“I’m not dating anyone you wouldn’t approve of.” Stiles pauses. He’s not sure how to verbalize what he feels for Derek. “But I do like an older guy.”

“Derek Hale,” his dad says. It’s just shy of an accusation—not directed at Stiles but at the man not in the room.

“Yeah. It got bad. Obvious, I mean. It got so bad that it got obvious and he figured it out.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair. “We talked about it. He shot me down. He said I was too young for him.” Among other things.

“Damn right you are,” his dad says with a note of false cheer.

Stiles clams up.

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

“I wasn’t really looking for anything to begin with.” Stiles releases a deep breath. “But I still—I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to stop. I just.” He pauses again. He hasn’t admitted this yet, didn’t even know it was something he wanted until now. “But I kind of hoped he would—you know.” Stiles laughs.

He kind of hoped Derek would want him back. And it seems like such a stupid, embarrassing, _childish_ thing to wish for.

His dad sighs. “And is that why you went over there? Not to see Isaac but to see Derek?”

“No,” Stiles says immediately. Then he weighs the usefulness of that idea. He ducks his head and shields his eyes with his hands, hoping he looks mortified and not like he’s hiding from a cop’s scrutiny. So much for honesty. “Okay, yeah. A little. I just wanted to be around him more. And Isaac was a pretty good excuse for that. We did set up the video game thing and I guess I had some ulterior motives.”

His dad doesn’t say anything for a while, but there’s a crooked smile on his face. “I should’ve known you’d fall for someone like him. I used to find Men’s Fitness magazines mixed in with your comics around when you were fourteen. Took me awhile to figure out you liked the pictures. That was after I found a few swimsuit editions in there too.”

“Oh. My. God. _Dad_.”  Now Stiles doesn’t have to fake his mortification. Still, he appreciates the effort to lighten the mood.

“Stiles,” his dad sighs and rubs his face tiredly again. “I guess I’ll tell you what you already know. Just keep an open mind for the new people you meet. Don’t shut them out because you’re so focused on someone who’s too stupid to give you a chance.” Yeah. Stiles already learned that lesson. “Not that I _want_ him to give you a chance,” he mumbles. “Anyway, it’s good that how you feel is out in the open. You won’t be left hanging. I know that hurts to hear, but I think that’ll help you get over it sooner.”

The alarm set on his dad’s phone goes off.

“Well, that’s my cue to head out.”

His dad gets up and puts his dishes in the sink. He approaches Stiles’ chair and Stiles gets up to meet his dad’s hug halfway.

“I love you, son.”

“I love you too, Dad,” he says into his dad’s shoulder.

Before his dad pulls away, he says, “I still know you’re hiding something else.”

Stiles sighs.

 

IV.

 

When their next movie night rolls around—technically their second but technically their third pack meeting at Derek’s—Stiles is almost fully healed thanks to the honey potion. He doesn’t need bandages at any rate.

And Derek needs to get a bigger fucking couch. Seriously, Stiles is so sick of getting crammed between objects and molten hot werewolves. Their bodies are like ovens.

“Jesus,” Stiles says. Derek’s sitting on his right. He glances at Stiles. “What the hell is your normal body temperature? I feel like I’m sitting next to a solar flare.”

Derek takes a sip of water from the glass in his hand. “It was 101 when I was a beta. It’s a 102.5 now. Maybe 103.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groans and tries to shift further away from Derek. “That sounds miserable.”

Derek shrugs. “Was for a little while. I’m used to it now.”

“We’re really that hot?” Scott asks. “It doesn’t feel that bad.”

Stiles puts his foot on Scott’s back and shoves him. “That’s because your body temp is further away from the room temp, so the room feels colder to you than it does to me. I’m about to become a giant sweat stain on Derek’s couch.”

“Sexy,” Erica says. She’s on the floor by Derek’s right leg.

“If you really think so, you can bottle me afterwards and sell me as perfume.”

“That’s disgusting,” Boyd says.

Erica giggles.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Derek shake his head and scratch above his lip, probably to hide a smile.

Stiles gets up to refill his water bottle in the kitchenette and has to step over Scott and Jackson on his way over. He nearly goes flying into a wall when Jackson ‘accidentally’ hooks his foot over Stiles’ ankle. He decides, rather maturely, that he won’t go Jackson’s way so he can dump the damn thing over his head. Mostly because in this heat, that would be like a favor.

Stiles goes around the other way, passing by Erica. But then _she_ stretches her leg out at the right moment and causes him to stumble. His hand catches Derek’s knee, which at least prevents this from turning into a painful and embarrassing incident. Some of his water sloshes onto his forearm and rolls off his skin and onto the carpet, but no harm there. None of it lands on Derek.  

Stiles knows she did it on purpose by the cutesy, exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes.

He sits down, and when she least expects it, leans over Derek and dumps the water on her head.

Derek laughs before he can cover it up.

 

V.

 

Two weeks pass and it doesn’t take Stiles long to realize that his ‘pack mates’ are graciously trying to set him up with Derek. Or something of that nature.

During movie nights, Stiles always ends up sitting next to him. No one will take the seat beside their grouchy alpha. Lydia pushed him down beside Derek once and sauntered away like she saved his life. He wonders if they’re making fun of him or—nope, he can’t think of a second possibility. He wishes they’d just butt out. Scott is the only one who doesn’t do anything. He also doesn’t have an explanation when Stiles asks him about it.

He doesn’t know how to describe what they do in the warehouse. Maybe it’s his imagination (or paranoia) but it seems like they try extra hard during training sessions to wear Derek down. Boyd managed to throw Derek on his back once. But it was a short lived victory. As soon as Derek recovered, he threw Boyd at a wall.

Fuck, what an ego Stiles has—they were just getting stronger, better at coordinating, and following Derek’s direction. It had nothing to do with him.

So what if he gets to witness what Derek looks like winded, with his hands on his knees struggling to catch his breath? It’s not like he stares. (Much.)

But today, they’re doing something different. Derek has a cage of basketballs in one corner of the warehouse basement (which has now been dubbed as the training area). Stiles wonders if they stole them from school. Guess he’ll find out when the semester starts (in less than a month, ugh).

A bare basketball hoop is fixed on the back wall, close to fifteen feet high. There are only a few feet between the hoop and the ceiling.

“This will test your agility and reflexes. But I’m more interested in how well you can fine tune your strength,” Derek says as he dribbles a basketball around him, effortlessly avoiding the one by his foot.

“With basketball?” Jackson asks. His arms are crossed and he watches the basketball moving in and out of Derek’s hands with disinterest.

“Yeah. For example. Isaac, catch.”

Derek tosses the ball at Isaac’s chest. He catches it easily with a look that says ‘I don’t understand the point of this exercise.’

Derek bends down to pick up the other ball and says, “Scott, catch.”

Scott holds up his hands, but Derek doesn’t throw it to him. In a flash, Derek pushes the ball out of his hands and it springs at Erica’s face. She’s caught off guard—she manages to catch it in time but her hands grasp it with too much pressure and it explodes.

Stiles jumps a mile at the sound. His ears are ringing. He can only imagine how that must feel to werewolf ears. God, that was _deafening_.

Peter is typing like nothing happened.

“Good reflexes,” Derek says. “But bad control. See what I mean?”

Derek motions Isaac to pass the ball back to him and Isaac does with the same force Derek used to surprise Erica. But Derek isn’t affected by it and the ball remains undamaged.

So they play. And it totally destroys Stiles’ concentration. His heart shoots into his throat every time a basketball explodes, which happens frequently. He gives up on research and starts playing a few games on his computer. He gets pretty engrossed in a game of Tetris.

Until a basketball explodes a foot above his head.

“ _FUCK!_ ” Stiles shouts.

His laptop skids across his bent knees and dips dangerously close to the concrete floor. His pulse is racing. He looks up and sees Derek staring at him with a sharp, teasing edge to his mouth. Asshole.

“What the fuck was that for?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs. “You looked like you needed a little waking up.”

“Funny,” Stiles laughs shakily. “I think waking someone up by scaring them to death is pretty counterproductive.”

“I’m pretty sure being scared to death is a myth. But if there was anyone who could manage it...” Derek shrugs again.

Someone tries to hit the back of Derek’s head with a basketball but he spins in time to catch it and fake pass it to Isaac only to whip it at Jackson. It explodes in his unprepared hands.

“Did you just call me a coward?” Stiles asks. He’s stunned by the idea. He never thought Derek would say something like that.

Derek rolls his eyes. “No. I just mean you’re so damn jumpy.”

“So,” Stiles drawls. “You just wanted to scare the shit out of me for no reason?”

Derek considers that like it’s a novel idea. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Should I be worried about you popping out of corners in my room and shouting boo? Oh wait, we’ve already been there before.” Stiles’ mind stutters at a thought. It’s not possible, but he asks anyway. “Are you pulling my pigtails or something?”

Derek sighs heavily and turns back to the destructive ‘basketball game’ behind him. Once again, Derek never said he wasn’t. And that really piques Stiles’ interest.

 

VI.

 

The next time they’re at the warehouse, they’re still doing the basketball exercise. There’s only thirty minutes left until they’re dismissed home so Stiles takes the opportunity to go outside to take a piss and get away from the earsplitting sound of basketballs exploding. He really needs to remember to grab earplugs.

He occupies the remaining time by kicking garbage around the crumbling foundation. He stops after a fat rat wiggles out of a tin can. It grosses him out so he heads inside. When he gets back to the basement, his laptop is missing.

Erica, Boyd, and Jackson are already heading up the stairs, although Erica glances back with interest. Isaac follows behind them with Derek’s keys in hand, presumably to wait in the car. Peter is gone. Scott lingers by the exit. He looks uncomfortable—his arms are crossed and his shoulders are tense. He’s wearing this pinched expression while staring at the metal rafters.

It isn’t.

 _It is_ _not_.

Stiles glances up and, sure enough, sees the glint of his laptop peeking over a rafter twenty feet above his head.

Stiles gapes. He looks up again like he can’t believe his eyes, like it’s just an illusion, and then stares at Derek.

“But _why_?” Stiles flails his arms. “Why?” He can’t think of a more fitting response.

Derek has one of the few surviving basketballs in his hands. He’s not paying attention to Stiles at all. He’s watching the ball spin on his finger.

Stiles grits his teeth and looks where his poor baby is probably stranded in mountains of dust, cobwebs, and rat poop. He searches the room for a way to get up there but finds nothing. There are claw marks on a support beam and they lead all the way to the rafters. At least Stiles knows how Derek got up there.

“All this time I’ve been making jokes about dogs. I never thought of cats and scratching posts. Thanks for the new material.”

Derek doesn’t say anything.

“Cat got your tongue?” Stiles asks. It’s lame but fuck it. He’s too busy worrying about the machine that holds his _life_ and the fact that he can’t afford a new one if it breaks.

Derek takes the ball and throws it hard at the rafter. The laptop trembles, threatening to fall over the edge. Stiles makes a horrified, strangled gasp. The ball falls back into Derek’s hands.

“I thought you wouldn’t miss your laptop since you haven’t been using it much,” Derek says.

Oh, so this is punishment. Sure, he has been slacking on his research but how the fuck could anyone concentrate with _explosions_?

“Alright. Point taken. Read loud and clear. A simple ‘Stiles, stop playing games and bring earplugs’ would’ve sufficed.”

Stiles stops to think about that. It would’ve sufficed. This was a theatrical and elaborate way to punish him and those are two things that Derek isn’t. Sure, he can be dramatic, but it’s never for the sake of a show. And Derek always prefers the bluntest, quickest, most efficient way of handling things.

“That so?” Derek asks. He throws the ball up again and Stiles’ laptop teeters over the edge, rocking to gain balance.

Stiles is verging on furious. This is stupid. This isn’t funny. He doesn’t deserve this crap. His face is warm—he can only imagine how red it is. And he doesn’t want to say anything that will make Derek retreat into his shell and stop being playful but at the same time this is too far for him.

He just says, “ _Derek_.”

It’s a tone he doesn’t think Derek has ever heard from him and it works like a charm. Derek’s face shifts into something more serious.

“Don’t worry, I’ll grab it,” Derek says.

Stiles doesn’t watch him throw the ball for the last time. He hears the sound of his laptop making contact with Derek’s hands and the basketball bouncing on the floor. Suddenly, the corner of his laptop is pressing gently against his forehead.

“I wouldn’t have let it break,” Derek says. There’s a silent apology in there. And it’s a little weird that Stiles can hear it, that he knows Derek well enough to be able to pick out unspoken words and translate his tone. Stiles knows he can be freakishly observant, but it usually takes him awhile to know someone like that.

Stiles looks up at him and takes his laptop into his arms. He releases a deep breath. Now that the stress has passed, his anger fades too. He’s mostly annoyed. “Good. That’s good. But if you do that again, I’m going to see how well werewolf balls heal from a bat to the crotch.” Derek doesn’t smile like Stiles was hoping he would. He sighs and adds, “Don’t worry about it.”

Derek puts a hand on Stiles’ head and halfheartedly ruffles his hair.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says again. Maybe it’s a little fucked up that he’s trying to reassure Derek after he was such an asshole, but whatever. It’s not worth a grudge. Especially since Stiles knows Derek didn’t really mean any harm.

Scott clears his throat. His eyes rove around the room in effort to avoid looking at them. Stiles can tell Scott has something to say that’s for his ears only and he can bet it’s a conversation he doesn’t really want to have. Mostly because he’ll be too busy reeling from Derek’s now _very_ obvious pigtail pulling.

Stiles goes to grab his backpack and slips his laptop inside.

“See you later,” he says as he heads up the first flight of stairs.

“Yeah. Bring earplugs.”

 

***

 

When Stiles and Scott are in the McCall mobile (because Stiles’ jeep is having surgery) and they’re a good distance away from the warehouse, Scott says, “So.”

Stiles watches Scott drum his fingers against the steering wheel. “So?” he prods.

“So.” Scott says like the word is fucking self-explanatory. It isn’t.

“Good talk, Scott. Very insightful.”

“I just mean that was kind of weird.”

“Is that what ‘so’ means? I’ll contact Webster’s Dictionary. Their definition is very misleading.”

Scott sighs. “He was totally teasing you.”

“Yep.”

“Almost like.” Scott waves a hand at the road. “You know?”

“Absolutely. Exactly like.” Stiles mimics Scott by waving a hand at the road.

Scott snorts. “Fine. Be that way. What are you going to do? _Are_ you going to do anything? He did turn you down.”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know.”

 

VII.

 

Now that Stiles is looking for it, he sees that Derek _is_ interested. He doesn’t harbor it the same way as Stiles; he isn’t pining. It’s something muted and casual, like he has the choice not to act on it so he doesn’t. Which, of course, he rightfully has.

Stiles tests his hypothesis.

One movie night, Stiles sits on the floor with Scott, just to see how Derek will react to someone else beside him. Erica—good old Erica who seems to be in on his game without needing a word exchanged between them—plays along and sits beside Derek. Or more like hangs all over him. Erica is by far the most tactile of their group. Derek isn’t adverse to it. He slings an arm over her shoulders and flicks her cheek when she bumps her head against his shoulder.

It’s sort of a failed experiment. Stiles isn’t sure what to make of his results. All he learns is that Derek is willing to touch everyone but him. Except for the time Stiles was sat on, when he came up with the pool theory, when he was injured, and that one time in the warehouse, Derek _never_ touches him. Derek grabs Scott’s shoulder every now and then as congratulations for some job well done. It happens enough that Scott no longer flinches when he does it. He’s even started to lean into it. Stiles has seen Derek put a hand to the small of Lydia’s back when he had to slide past her to get to the kitchenette. He bumps, pats, pushes, flicks, kicks (or more like prods with his foot) Isaac, Boyd, Erica, and Jackson. He even brushes against Peter every now and then, usually at some reminder of the fire. But Stiles? Nada.

It could be in consideration of his feelings now that Derek knows about them, but it seems almost too careful for that.

This does nothing for Stiles’ theory, but then there are other things that make it seem plausible.

Every time someone picks on him—usually Erica and Jackson, occasionally Boyd—Derek intervenes with a look, a small sound, or some subtle movement. To be had, Derek still snaps at Stiles when he’s annoying, sneers at him when they engage in a snarking contest, and ignores him when he makes dog jokes.

And even though Derek doesn’t touch him, he does things to him that he doesn’t do with the others. He’ll hide Stiles’ things and steal the last of his water or his popcorn. He’ll do little things to set him off. And oh, does it work. Derek may not touch him, but damn if he doesn’t give him the most attention.

Stiles isn’t sure if he appreciates that or wants to break his fist on Derek’s pretty face.

 

VIII.

 

It’s another hot movie night and Erica brought popsicles.

She keeps leering and winking at Stiles when no one is looking. Which means she’s probably up to something terrible and wants him to take part in it. She wouldn’t be sending such obvious signals otherwise.

Erica hands them out. Derek and Jackson decline. Stiles gets his last.

She grins down at him. “And cherry for Stiles.”

He rolls his eyes and accepts it. He has an idea what she’s doing. Obvious blow job innuendos, ha ha. Maybe that’s why Derek didn’t take one. If he was afraid of torturing the horny teenager, he needn’t have worried. Food doesn’t really turn him on.

Erica challenges Lydia to a popsicle deep throating contest. Stiles can’t help it—he laughs. Way to make an innuendo practically literal.

Lydia narrows her eyes. “If we had bananas I might consider it. But a popsicle could melt and choke me to death. And I’m not sure I’d want a werewolf performing the Heimlich. There are less humiliating ways to die. ”

She ends up accepting anyway.

Boyd jumps in. “Not that it’s a skill I’ll ever have a use for, but I’ll give it a shot.”

“I’ll try it too,” Isaac says.

“Um. I think I’ll just eat mine,” Scott says.

“Stiles?” Erica asks, watching him with wide, urging eyes.

Lydia stares at him with an equally intent look. And holy fuck, these two never should’ve met. He knows Erica’s little plot now. Apparently, she also stumbled across Stiles’ theory and she’s trying to make him put on a show for Derek. Boyd and Isaac were probably in on this from the start.

Stiles sighs, resigned. “Sure, why not? This is going to end tragically for me.” He slides off the couch and on to the floor, joining the circle of contestants.

“Don’t be so down on yourself,” Jackson says. “I’m sure you’ve had enough practice with McCall to be good competition.”

Scott breaks off a piece of his popsicle and throws it hard at Jackson’s face. Even with werewolf  reflexes, he’s not able to catch it in time with his mouth and it ends up hitting him in the nose. Stiles gives Scott a high five.

“Children,” Derek says absently.

And so they go one at a time. Lydia and Erica, who’ve clearly had enough experience with this, can go almost all the way. Lydia wins by an inch. Boyd can barely go halfway.

“Fuck. That’s a weird feeling. It’s so cold,” he says.

Isaac is marginally more successful, but chokes when Stiles breaks his concentration by snorting. Maybe there’s something wrong with him, but he doesn’t find this sexy at all. He finds it hilarious. This is like some erotic fantasy in a funhouse mirror. They’re trying to pleasure water, sugar, and food coloring. It’s just _funny_.

“Your turn, Stiles,” Erica sings.

“Remember to breathe through your nose and relax,” Lydia adds.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t give them any tips.”

“That’s because they wouldn’t put them to practical use,” Erica says.

It’s sort of a miracle that Stiles doesn’t blush. He’s too busy feeling horrified.

Despite not finding any appeal to this game, he gives it his best effort. Boyd was right; it does feel weird. Cold radiates from the popsicle and tickles the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. He tries to follow Lydia and Erica’s instructions but his mind is too erratic—he thinks of what he must look like based on what he saw the others do and cracks up. His epiglottis closes and his gag reflex activates, causing him to choke as he laughs. Then he’s coughing, laughing, and choking all at the same time.

When he catches his breath he says, “Oh my God, I literally almost died laughing.”

Scott doubles over laughing and Erica sighs like Stiles ruined all of her hopes and dreams.

Lydia says, “Four out of ten.” Then she pauses and tilts her head. “Although you did come in third place. Hardly an accomplishment but I’m sure you’ll improve.”

Stiles hopes she’s joking even though her tone is rather clinical and matter of fact.

He snorts. “I’d say zero out of ten. I’m pretty sure if I laughed while sucking some guy’s dick, I’d get punched in the face. Or worse, like pistol whipped.”

“Oh God, stop!” Scott giggles.

Stiles hears a cut off noise behind him, a loud huh! He turns all the way around and sees Derek with a hand over his mouth and his shoulders shaking just enough to be noticeable. Derek is laughing but he’s covering it up. Stiles wishes he wouldn’t.

“How about a redemption round?” Erica is fucking determined to make this sexy apparently. But it will never be sexy. Stiles just failed giving oral sex to a popsicle. That will keep him laughing for days. “Just imagine it’s a guy you like or think is hot. Come _on_ , Stiles.”

Okay, this just stepped into the realm of inappropriate. That’s not a nice thing to say when she knows the guy he likes is in the fucking room.

“Well, when you put it that way.” Stiles smiles and bites his popsicle in half. 

“That would definitely get you punched in the face.” Boyd laughs.

Jackson scoffs. “More like murdered.”

“Failing that, arrested,” Isaac adds.

Stiles shrugs. The game is over. Erica’s pout signals her defeat. He gets up and takes his seat beside Derek. He’s pretty sure if he stayed on the floor, Erica would have hauled him onto the couch since she seems to be freakishly invested in his love life. Particularly the one he _doesn’t_ have with Derek.

“Are we back to this being a movie night?” Derek asks. His hand isn’t covering his mouth anymore, and his good humor has been reduced to a sardonic smile. “That’s what this is, right? Because I’ll kick all of your asses out of here if you try to have an orgy.”

Stiles lets the last piece of his popsicle slide off the stick and into his mouth. He manages to avoid choking as he laughs.

Erica pops the DVD in and settles beside Boyd to sulk.

 

***

 

The movie doesn’t hold Stiles’ interest so his attention shrinks to his immediate surroundings. And that’s how he catches Derek studying him. When Derek realizes he’s been caught, he doesn’t look away immediately or show any sign of guilt or embarrassment. No—he just holds Stiles’ stare before blinking and returning to the TV, like that was nothing out of the ordinary. At first, Stiles ignores it, doesn’t think much of it. But then it happens again. This time Derek gets up and disappears into the kitchenette. He returns with a damp paper towel.

Stiles accepts it without a thought and presses it to his face. He expects to see huge red smears of popsicle juice when he examines it but there’s barely anything.

“Huh. I guess it’s just stained,” Derek says quietly.

“What, do I have a Bozo-the-clown look going on?”

The corners of Derek’s mouth lift a fraction. It’s not quite a smile. “Something like that.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it in front of Stiles’ face. Stiles hears the fake click of a camera taking a photo. Derek shows him the screen. “Kind of just looks like you’re wearing lipstick.”

It does. It totally does. His mouth is so fucking red. He’d prefer to look like Bozo. It occurs to him that this may have been a part of Erica’s plan—to draw attention to his mouth or something—but then he dismisses the idea. As much as he loves Erica, she’s not an evil genius and wouldn’t think with such a fine detail in mind. _Lydia_ on the other hand.   

Stiles wipes uselessly at his mouth. The light from Derek’s phone is still in his peripheral vision. Derek hasn’t put it away yet. In fact, his fingers are sliding across the screen.

“Derek, what are you doing?”

Derek glances up at him and raises an eyebrow. After gesturing to the six other people in the room, he holds a finger to his lips like he actually fucking cares if Stiles disturbs them. Derek returns to his phone, tapping and sweeping his fingers over the light.

“Derek.”

Derek ignores him.

“Derek, are you drawing on my face?” Stiles doesn’t know why he bothers asking when he knows that’s exactly what Derek is doing.

He makes a move to grab the phone but Derek levels him with a look that says ‘really, Stiles? Are you sure you want to try that?’

Yes. Yes, he’s sure. Of course, he’s unsuccessful. Derek easily evades his every attempt to steal it and he’s left groping at air.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just delete it,” Stiles grunts against the hand on his forehead, forcing him back to his side of the couch.

“Saved as your icon in my contacts,” Derek says with his eyes on his phone.

“What did you do?”

Derek shows him from a distance. Stiles’ picture has Betty Boop eyelashes, bunny teeth, and big, white, diamond-shaped _sparkles_ over most of his eyes. There are also two red circles over his cheeks as blush marks. Derek stashes his phone back in his pocket.

Stiles stares at him. “Are you for real?” His laugh is automatic at first, unrestrained, but then it tapers into something nervous. “Grow up.”

Derek glances at him. “I’ll be sure to follow your example.”

He remembers Derek asking, _Are you flirting with me?_ _Do we need to talk about this?_

This behavior is really hypocritical. The revelation strikes like lightning and feels bittersweet. Stiles wants Derek to act like this—he likes it—but Derek made it clear that anything between them was a closed street. So how is Stiles supposed to interpret this? How is he supposed to be okay with Derek telling him ‘no’ when he keeps giving some seriously mixed signals? Is Derek even aware of what he’s doing? He’s not the type of person to play mind games or say ‘no’ when he means ‘yes,’ so what the fuck is he _doing_? This is the definition of leading him on.

But Stiles knows Derek isn’t cruel enough to do that to him. After all, he was so quick to shut him down the last time.

 _Do_ they need to talk about this?

Probably. It’s starting to twist him up in all the frustrating and dramatic ways he doesn’t want to deal with. God knows he already has enough experience with blindly pining over an unrequited crush, and that’s not a fruitless, time and energy consuming pursuit he cares to repeat. And Derek is so _not_ helping him overcome this.

And Stiles is so glad that Derek isn’t.

Fucking fuck.   

 

***

 

The first movie ends and Erica puts in the next one.

Scott gets to his feet and puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder when he reaches the front door. “My mom needs me to pick her up at the hospital so we have to head out.”

Stiles moves to get up from the couch then stops, thinking. He wants to talk to Derek and he might be able to arrange that in a way that will give them complete privacy. “I kind of want to stay?” he says. He can only imagine how unusual the request sounds. Scott frowns at him. “Derek, is it all right if you drive me home?”

Derek looks at him and shrugs. “Sure.”

Scott’s eyes narrow and Stiles can practically feel the question mark forming in his brain. Why must his best friend always be so suspicious of every little thing he does? Stiles sighs and waves him on. _Tomorrow_ , he tries to communicate telepathically. _Later_. Scott shrugs and leaves.

 

***

 

Derek kicks everyone out at 1AM.

Erica and Boyd leave with Jackson, which, as far as Stiles is concerned, is smarter than riding with Derek. Even if Erica and Jackson still hiss at each other like a couple of territorial cats, Jackson is her age and Erica’s parents will have less to worry about if they see him drop her off (especially with Lydia in the car). Stiles doesn’t care if he haphazardly diverted their attention from Erica’s relationship with Derek—he still wouldn’t put it past them to investigate. After all, that certainly wasn’t his most convincing performance.

Isaac, of course, stays. And Stiles heads out with Derek.

They get in the car and Stiles waits until they’re a good distance from Derek’s apartment when he says, “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Go ahead.” Derek keeps his eyes on the road. His irises flash red from the headlights of a passing car.

And Stiles can’t think of a word to say. He had three hours of movies to come up with a way to approach this topic and…nothing.

“Or not,” Derek says.

“For a guy who’s not interested, you sure don’t act like it.” That’s the best he can think of. And if his heart is beating a little too fast, then fuck it. If he could control it, he would.

“Not this again.”

Stiles bristles at the exasperation in his tone, like this is some long-suffered argument they’ve had a million times instead of just the _once_. “Well, do we need to talk about what _you’re_ doing?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Derek sighs.

“I suppose you’re just joking, right?” Stiles laughs. “Now where have I heard that before?”

“I was. And it’s not the same.”

“Well, then I’ll ask you what you asked me. You’re not just joking, are you?”

“You’re projecting. You’re looking for things that aren’t there, Stiles.”

It takes all of Stiles’ strength not to punch Derek in the eye. So he’s younger, but he’s not stupid. He’s not a fucking infant. Nothing pisses him off more than being patronized.

“You said you had a lot of reasons you won’t—” Won’t what? Give him a chance? That’s too close to begging. Stiles doesn’t want to beg even if a small part of him is more than willing. “You don’t want to start anything. How many reasons exactly?” Stiles asks.

Derek is gritting his teeth. Stiles sees it when they pass a streetlight. “A whole fucking list, all right? Get it through your head. I said ‘no.’ _Get over it_.” The last three words come out firm and final.

It’s perfect. That’s exactly what Stiles planned to worm out of him but didn’t even need to make the effort. “A whole list? Why a whole list, Derek? You only need one reason and that’s ‘Stiles, I’m not interested in you.’ That’s it. Done. The only reason you would have a list is because you’re trying to convince yourself of something, _not_ me.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. They’re almost to Stiles’ house, but he can’t reach it yet. He’s not done with this.

“Stop the car,” he says.

Surprisingly, Derek listens. He pulls over to the side of the road and turns off the car. Everything is slightly darker without the lights in the dashboard and consoles.

“I’m right,” Stiles says. He resists the urge to add ‘aren’t I?’ He has to be confident. He can’t give Derek a way out. At this point, he’s not sure if Derek would even take it if he had one.

Oddly enough, at this moment, Stiles thinks of Jackson and what he accused him of doing to Lydia. It’s not that Stiles thinks Derek doesn’t have the right to say ‘no’— _of course_ he has that right—it’s just not fair that Derek is acting like Stiles is the only one who wants this. Like he’s an inconvenience for feeling anything and he’s the sole source of blame for the whole situation. He _isn’t_. It’s not fair that Derek is using him as a scapegoat for his own feelings.  

Derek laughs, like it was electrocuted out of him. It’s the sound someone makes when they don’t know what else to do. “ _You_ ,” Derek says with a boldness that would make people ask ‘me?’ from across the street, “are not available for me to want.”

Well, that’s not a disagreement.

“Is this really about me being seventeen? Because there are only eleven states in the country that have the age of consent at eighteen. That’s 39 states that say I’m legal. My point is that it’s an arbitrary thing—”

“Yes and no,” Derek says. It’s that rare gentle tone that makes every nerve inside Stiles stand at attention. “The age difference definitely bothers me. God. You’re in fucking high school.” Derek’s seat creaks as he leans back against it. “But I’m sick enough to overlook that. Not easily. I wouldn’t forget it, but it wouldn’t stop me.”

“I don’t think that’s sick,” Stiles says. He has to say that first—before he asks what Derek’s real problem is—because he doesn’t want Derek to sink into one of his many spirals of self-loathing and guilt.

Derek makes a dismissive noise. “Your opinion is biased. A lot of people would disagree. The law says you’re still a child. And _I_ agree. That’s why it’s sick, Stiles. I think of you as a kid and I still don’t care.”

Stiles considers that. “I think maturity and adulthood are based on independence and self-sufficiency, not age. Look at Isaac. He’s under the age of consent but legally independent. So what the fuck is that? The law says he’s adult enough to make a living and survive but not adult enough to consent to sex with someone eighteen and older? It’s not that I think the law is unnecessary, but fuck, clearly it’s not all black and white. Otherwise the age of consent would be the same in every state.” Stiles pauses. “You’d still think of me as a kid even when I turned eighteen, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Derek says.

“But the law wouldn’t. No one would care. And you know if I was in Isaac’s situation, I’d do okay. I’ve had a job before and could handle working full time. I know how to cook. I’ve paid bills. You know I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah.”

“So you can trust me with my life but not my ability to give consent?” Stiles presses. Derek doesn’t answer. “So, it’s not that you think of me as a kid. It’s just that no one knows what to think of me at this point, at this age. Shades of gray, man.” Stiles watches the opaque shadow of Derek’s body beside him. He can tell Derek isn’t looking at him by the outline of his profile and the absence of red where his eyes would be.

“That’s very good rationalization,” Derek says tightly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a minor and it’s still illegal.”

Stiles sighs. This is going nowhere. “Lots of things are illegal. Breaking and entering, trespassing, withholding information about an unsolved murder, vandalism. Huh, all things we’ve committed. I’m sure I’m missing a few things. Getting involved before my eighteenth birthday is probably the lightest crime we could commit. Well, next to jaywalking.”

It’s a mistake. He jumped the gun before assessing Derek’s biggest hang up.

“I can’t let it affect the pack, Stiles. If we broke up, do you really think we’d be able to keep it together for the others? They’d get our emotional feedback and their loyalties and sympathies would split. The pack is doing so well. I don’t want to complicate things and risk damaging their momentum.”

Stiles bites his lip. He can’t think of an argument strong enough to counter that. On the other hand, he thinks it’s just as stupid as it is reasonable.

“Don’t you think it’s a little premature to be thinking about breaking up before giving it a chance? That’s seriously pessimistic. Believe me, I get thinking from every angle and trying to predict every worst case scenario, but this sounds like a hostage situation—nobody move and no one gets hurt.” Derek’s red eyes are on him now. “Don’t you think it could boost morale? I mean, have you noticed that Erica, Boyd, Lydia, and Isaac are trying to get us together? Well, Erica in particular.”

“No, Stiles. I haven’t noticed,” Derek says with biting sarcasm. “I thought deep-throating popsicles was just something everyone did for fun these days. I also never realized you sat next to me _every single movie night_.” He scoffs and his red eyes roll. “And ‘boost morale?’ If I sound like a hostage situation, then you sound like a military strategy. Jesus. We shouldn’t get together for the pack’s sake.”

Now it’s Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes. “And yet you’re saying we shouldn’t make an attempt for their sake. Don’t you think that’s a bit of a double standard?”

Derek sighs heavily. His shadow shifts as he brings up a hand to rub his eyes. “You’re so fucking frustrating. Are you going to browbeat me until I say ‘yes’? Because I have to say, that’s not really helping your cause.”

“No,” Stiles says, annoyed. “I’m just confused. The way you treat me confuses me. Stop making me think I have a chance if I don’t.” He doesn’t want to say that because he doesn’t really want Derek to stop. But it’s the right thing to say for both of them. “Even after all this talking, I don’t understand anything. I mean, do you even want me or—”

“Yes.”

Stiles falters. He ducks his head and feels heat spreading up his neck and into his cheeks and ears.

“Then what’s the problem again? You’re going to tell me ‘no’ but then act like you’re flirting with me? The law is ambiguous and contradictory and won’t matter in six months? And we shouldn’t get together for the pack but we should stay apart for them because we might hypothetically break up? Dude—where the fuck are we?”

Derek groans. Or sighs. Stiles can’t tell. “I don’t fucking know.”

“Can I propose something revolutionary? Can we—I don’t know—give it a shot and see what happens? If it all goes to hell, I think we’ll manage. I think we’ve been through worse things. I think we can trust ourselves to handle it. Or we don’t have to. But say that outright and mean it.”

Derek doesn’t say anything right away and Stiles wishes his heart wouldn’t pound so obnoxiously during the silence. Eventually, Derek murmurs, “Okay.” And then again with more confidence. “Yeah. Okay.”

And now Stiles’ heart rate is really doing its best to imitate an acrobat. He was never so self-conscious of his heartbeat until, you know, werewolves. Now he wishes he could install a muffler.

Derek’s acceptance refuses to sink in. Stiles feels like he’s in some surreal dream.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.” He doesn’t mean to repeat Derek. It just slips out absently. “Yeah. So that’s good then.”

Derek starts the car and pulls back onto the road. “You always get your way, don’t you?” Derek sighs. Fortunately, he sounds good-natured, not resigned or distressed.

Stiles winces. “Most of the time. Sorry. I mean—I didn’t mean to force you. You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Derek says lightly. “You couldn’t force me to do anything.”

Stiles sighs, relieved. “Okay.”

 

***

 

In no time, Derek is sidling up to Stiles’ walkway. The lights are out and his dad’s police cruiser is absent, which is somewhat surprising since it’s nearly 2AM.

“So are there ground rules for this thing? Keeping it secret is obvious. But are we telling the pack? I mean, can I tell Scott?” Oh God, Derek is going to take it back. Stiles sounds so overeager about this. He’s going to fuck it up.

Derek shrugs. “If you want. I’m not one for big announcements. They’ll figure it out on their own.”

Stiles nods. That’s good enough for him.

He unlocks the passenger door and has his fingers on the door handle when Derek says, “Hang on a second.”

Stiles turns to him, ready to ask ‘what’ just as he feels Derek’s hand grip the back of his neck and guide him forward. Without thinking about it, he moves with the motion and then Derek is kissing him. It’s a direct hit despite the spontaneity of it and the odd angle. There’s nothing fancy about the kiss—just firm, confident pressure and a little movement that makes their lips stick together.

And Stiles doesn’t breathe. Not for a second. He’s too stunned to close his eyes at first. His frantic pulse is working double time, tripping over itself, too loud and too fast even to his own ears. Werewolves in the next county could probably hear it (if there are any werewolves in the next county). Oh fuck, he wants more but he can’t seem to remember how to move.

It only lasts a few seconds, until Derek pulls away.

Stiles’ body can’t seem to process that Derek is no longer holding him in place. He’s frozen, leaning over the dividing line between their seats and blinking at Derek’s shadowy face.

“Goodnight Stiles.”

Stiles allows himself to breathe. “Uh, yeah. You too.” That’s a response that makes sense, right?

As he opens the door and slides off the seat, he misjudges his space and hits his head on the top part of the door frame when he stands up. Fortunately, he doesn’t knock himself unconscious, but it hurts enough to make him yelp and catches him off guard, causing him to stumble backwards out of the car.

So he’s about as graceful as a dead man on ice skates. Derek knows this. It’s fine.

Stiles flees into his house without looking back—anything to avoid humiliating himself further. After closing the door behind him, he leans against it, exhaling another deep breath and listening to the low rumble of Derek’s car fade into nothing. Stiles wonders if Derek is laughing at him and kind of hopes that he is. He could use it.

Exhaustion weighs Stiles down and he heads upstairs to get ready for bed.       

 

***

 

Stiles has been staring at the ceiling for the last hour. In that time, he heard the front door creak open and click closed and listened to his dad’s footsteps on the stairs. His brain is too hyper to let him sleep. He thinks he has a boyfriend now. And Derek kissed him. And then there’s a disheartening thought—the one thing he told his dad as the truth—how he _wasn’t_ dating Derek Hale—has soured into a lie. That’s a first; he has borrowed the truth in advance before but never a lie.

His phone beeps from a new text.

Stiles reaches beside his pillow, groping for it. When he finally finds it and opens it, he blinks blearily at the bright screen. It’s a text from Derek.

_buying new couch for aprtmnt tmrrw. want to come?_

Stiles’ fingers rapidly type: _Is that a date?_ But then he reevaluates it, scrutinizes the invisible messages that could be behind such a response. Asking that makes him feel stupid. He deletes it and sends: _Yeah. :)_

_pick you up after work at 4_

Stiles bites his lip. He doesn’t remember when his dad’s next shift is, whether or not he’ll be home, and arousing more suspicion is the last thing Stiles wants to do.

He replies: _Pick me up at Scott’s._

A second later: _okay_.

Shit. Fuck. He hates himself for saying that without clearing Scott first, without even telling him about the newest development in his life, like dating the guy Scott doesn’t want to hear any details about. It’s past 3AM now but Stiles calls Scott anyway.

He hears Scott grunt into his phone on the fourth ring by way of a ‘hello.’

“Scott,” Stiles whispers. “I’m going to ask you something very unfair. Actually, I’m going to ask you a lot of unfair things and be an overall horrible friend for asking these things. I will owe you for life. I’m selling you my soul.”

“Wah?”

“I’m kind of,” he pauses, staring at his door like his dad is primed to barge in at the first mention of Derek’s name, “going on a date with Derek tomorrow?”

“ _What!_ ”

Stiles winces. “I need you to be my cover story. I have a feeling I’ll be making this request a lot because if my dad _ever_ found out, he would murder Derek—alpha werewolf powers will mean _nothing_ to the wrath of my dad—and then he’ll lock me in my room for the rest of my life. Or murder me too. I’m not sure which yet because I kind of told him that we weren’t dating and that it was never going to happen before it, well, happened.”

“Wait,” Scott says, sounding much more alert. “Dude, slow down. Are you sure? I mean, maybe you misinterpreted something? I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“I definitely didn’t misinterpret him kissing me.”

There’s silence on Scott’s end. “Well. Okay. Never mind then.” Scott laughs. “Fuck, seriously?”

“Fucking seriously.”

“Congratulations I guess?”

Stiles’ heart sinks. He knows Scott has reservations about Derek and would rather hear as little about his interest in him as possible. But fuck, Stiles wants someone to talk to. He needs Scott’s support.

He tells him. “I’m not really asking you to be happy for me. Hell, I’m terrified this is all going to blow up in my face. But Scott, I want to talk to you about everything. I need a confidant that knows the meaning of the word discretion and that I trust.”

“Dude. Did you just propose to me?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yes, Scott. You are my everything. Have my hand in marriage and my soul in one night. It’s a two for one special.”

“Won’t that put a wrench in your relationship with Derek?”

“He can have my dick and my ass. Two things I’m sure you’re willing to give up.”

Scott makes an offended noise. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.” He sighs. “Anyway—sure. Of course you can talk to me. You listened to me talk about Allison, I guess. And I’ll cover you. But I have a feeling that your secret isn’t going to last very long if you just hide behind me so you might want to switch it up on who you’re hanging with.”

“Way ahead of you,” Stiles says. Lydia and Erica would probably be more than willing to accommodate.

Truthfully, this whole thing makes him feel awful. Not only does he have to lie to his dad even more, now he’s relying on others to lie for him. He couldn’t do that to Melissa and now he’s asking Scott to do that to his dad. Fuck, he’s such a bastard.

“Thanks. I really mean it. Thank you, Scott,” Stiles says. Relief lightens the weight on his lungs even as guilt sinks in his stomach.

“Just buy me the biggest, prettiest diamond ring you can find.” Scott laughs. “Anyway. Goodnight.”

“Yeah. Um. I kind of need you to cover me tomorrow. Derek’s picking me up at your house at four.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Goodnight again.”

“Goodnight, Scott.”

 

IX.

 

Having his jeep in the shop sucked.

Stiles has to walk to Scott’s house because Melissa had a morning shift and needed the car. Beacon Hills isn’t exactly large but it’s just big enough—it takes him close to an hour to get over to Scott’s and by the time he arrives, he’s sweaty and disgusting. Stiles showers, changes into some of Scott’s cleaner clothes, and hangs out with him until Derek comes to pick him up in a truck he borrowed from a coworker. It’s a weird thought; Derek talks to people outside of the pack and seems to be on _friendly_ _terms_ with them.

The trip to some discount furniture store three towns over is a simple, platonic outing, to be honest. He and Derek can’t really do anything in public. Not that they’re at a stage where they would—the idea of something as basic as handholding is utterly laughable. Seriously, Stiles can’t imagine Derek ever being lovey-dovey with him in public even if they were fucking married.  (Or fucking _and_ married.) Who knows—maybe Derek would. It suddenly hits Stiles that he doesn’t actually know Derek that well. At least not in this area.

Stiles finds a plush brown couch in the furthest corner of the store. It’s the only one bigger than the couch Derek already has and won’t block the front door, so Derek purchases it and pretty much single-handedly loads it into the back of the truck. (He only asks Stiles to ‘help’ for the sake of appearance, but Stiles is pretty sure that a couch that seats six people doesn’t actually weigh as much as a feather.)

When they get back, the old couch is sitting on the sidewalk with Isaac in it. Stiles watches Isaac help Derek maneuver the new couch up the stairs and into the apartment. With their combined strength, it doesn’t take long. They don’t even break a sweat. Stiles follows close behind, shamelessly enjoying the view of Derek’s ass from the lower steps.

He reaps the benefits of their hard labor by lying across the entire couch when they set it down. Isaac rolls his eyes as he heads out the door again with Derek in tow, presumably to load the old couch into the truck.

After a few minutes, Derek returns alone.

Stiles tilts his head back against the armrest, staring at the upside down door. When it’s clear Isaac isn’t returning, he asks, “Where did he go?”

Derek shoves Stiles’ feet aside and sits down. “Work. We switched shifts.”

Stiles levers himself up to look at Derek. “You guys work at the same place? Hang on—where _do_ you work?” It never occurred to him to ask.

“Chandler’s Hardware. I lift heavy boxes and tell customers where to find screwdrivers.”

Stiles laughs. “Oh, man. Our big bad alpha works in retail.”

Derek smacks Stiles’ left leg. “Don’t knock it. Money is money.”

Derek’s right. Living paycheck to paycheck isn’t supposed to be glamorous and it’s better than nothing. Stiles changes the subject. “So what? Did you change shifts so you could hang out with me?”

“Obviously.” Derek rolls his eyes.

With the flippant tone Derek uses, Stiles isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. “Did you really?”

“ _Yes_.”

It’s unexpectedly sweet. Actually, it’s so unexpected that Stiles doesn’t know how to respond. He kind of wants to hug Derek but doesn’t know how to go about that. He doesn’t know if they’re really at that stage of affection. Not that Stiles isn’t tactile—he’s plenty tactile—he just doesn’t know how it’ll be received and the pattern of their previous relationship stands in the way, makes him uncertain how to approach this new territory. What are their boundaries? Derek makes him feel so out of his depth.

Fuck it—since when did he ever really pay attention to boundaries?

Stiles slides down the armrest until his feet reach the other side of the couch. He places them across Derek’s lap and taps him with his heel. Derek throws him a look that’s neutral except for one raised eyebrow. It’s not a threatening or annoyed expression so Stiles figures what he’s doing is acceptable.

“I have a question for you,” Stiles says.

Derek sighs. Apparently he has realized that it’s futile to resist Stiles’ inquisitive mind.

“How come you don’t show any pack lovings to me?”

Derek levels him with the same flat look. “Pack ‘lovings?’”

“Yeah. You know, you touch everyone in your werewolf-y way. Except for me. I just wonder why?” He’s playing a bit of a mind game, considering he has a pretty good idea why. Well, a decent idea. He’s not positive and honestly curious.

Derek tilts his head, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Wouldn’t be the same kind, I guess. I’m not one for public displays of affection.”

Stiles scoffs. “Oh, that’s bullshit. That one time Erica sat next to you, you were all over each other. I’m surprised Boyd didn’t try to maim you.”

Derek huffs. Whatever light humor he had twists into something a little more cynical. “Jealousy, Stiles? Really?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just meant that objectively.” He really did.

Derek shakes his head. “Boyd didn’t feel threatened because there was nothing to feel threatened over. Like I said, not the same kind of touch.”

And then Derek looks at him. It’s a loaded look, full of some hidden motive. He grabs Stiles’ ankle and drags his palm and the tips of his fingers around Stiles’ heel, up the arch of his foot and toes. Holy fuck he didn’t realize his feet were that sensitive. He can feel that touch all the way up his spine. It’s like Derek carved out a path in Stiles’ skin; he can still feel the echoing touch of Derek’s hand even after he pulls away. To avoid a potentially awkward and mortifying situation, Stiles twists his feet and kicks at Derek’s knee—not like that does much to discourage him.

Derek laughs. And even if the sound pleases Stiles (on a spiritual level), he still thinks Derek’s an ass.

“Don’t make me kick you in the balls.”

Derek nods and shrugs, like he’s considering a reasonable business proposal. “Go ahead. See how well you can walk with two broken ankles.”

“Threats and domestic abuse so early on in this relationship? I’m disappointed and disturbingly unsurprised.”

“You started it.”

Stiles stares. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?” He laughs. “You’re such a _brat_.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“I know what you are, but what am I?” Stiles mocks.

“Endlessly irritating.”

Stiles sits up and pulls his feet out of Derek’s lap to push the flat of his soles against Derek’s left thigh. “I’ve been lead to believe that there’s usually a honeymoon phase to these things.” Stiles pauses. “Honeymoon phase. Oh my God, that’s hilarious because werewolves. That’s gold right there—you should pay me for that.”

“No. I shouldn’t.”

“Fine. Then you should feed me for that. It’s the one surefire way to mostly shut me up.”

To Stiles’ surprise, Derek agrees (not to shutting him up, to getting him food) and they order pizza since neither one of them has a car to pick anything up. Derek explains that he swapped the Camaro for his coworker’s truck so he could get the couch while his coworker could still get to work. _Shockingly_ , Derek’s coworker was more than happy to oblige.

 

***

 

The delivery person is late and while they’re waiting, Derek says. “Show me your leg.”

Stiles turns his longing gaze away from the door to throw Derek a look. “I haven’t shaved, so if you’re hoping that showing these babies to passing traffic will get us a ride, you’re out of luck. Probably.”

Derek blinks at him with remarkable patience. “I meant I want to see how well your leg is healing, dumbass.”

“Yeah. I kind of got that,” Stiles says. He rolls up his left pant leg all the way to his knee, turning his leg so Derek can examine the circle of scar tissue marking Stiles’ calf. Derek’s fingers trace the raised mark with care. Again, Stiles feels the shivery sensation of his nerves igniting.

“It’s almost all gone,” Derek says, impressed. Which is sort of ironic considering Derek is lucky enough to have instant healing abilities and would’ve healed from Stiles’ injuries in _minutes_.

“Yep. Potion worked wonders.” Stiles hastily shoves his pant leg back down. Seriously, if simple touches like these get him this hot, he’s in for a world of embarrassment. God forbid Derek hugs him. He might go nuclear and take out the whole town. What the fuck is this reaction anyway? He isn’t shyby any definition. Awkward? Yes. Shy? Not so much.

There’s a knock on the door. Finally, the food is here.

Derek pays the guy and they eat on the couch, under the condition that Stiles keep a hold on his clumsiness and not make a mess. He resents the request; he isn’t _four_. And if he eats with a little more care than usual, that doesn’t prove _anything_.

The sun is starting to set and the light from the window is at the right angle to stab Stiles’ eyes. He winces, shifting his head to avoid the direct hit to his retinas.

“Wait,” Derek says. “Don’t move for a second.”

Stiles sits still but continues to tilt his face away from the sun’s glare.  

“I said stop moving,” Derek sighs. He pulls out his phone from his back pocket and taps his thumb on the touchscreen a few times. “Put your pizza down and wipe your face.”

“Can’t. Too busy imitating a statue for unexplained reasons.”

Derek makes a bitch face. He takes Stiles’ plate and shoves a napkin into his hand. Stiles wipes at his mouth only because the request isn’t worth the effort to be stubborn. He doesn’t expect Derek to grab his chin, and for a heart stopping moment, he thinks Derek is going to kiss him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he angles Stiles’ face back into the sunlight.

“Um. Ow?” Stiles blinks rapidly. “Have I told you how much I like my ability to see? Because I’m quite fond of it.”

“Stay,” Derek says.

Stiles narrows his eyes to shield them against the glare of the sun and to regard Derek with an irritated look. “Excuse me while I stifle the urge to chew on your shoes and piss on your carpet.”

Stiles has to say, he’s shocked be his willingness to cooperate. What has Derek done to force out all of his obstinance?

Derek holds up his phone. “Open your eyes wider.”

“Should I say cheese for good measure?”

“No.”

Derek’s phone makes a fake camera shutter noise and Derek puts his arm down to stare at the picture.

Stiles reclaims his pizza. “You gonna draw on that one too?” he asks around a mouthful of food.

The corners of Derek’s mouth lift slightly, in that small, pleased way he rarely shows (probably rarely feels). He moves to hand over the phone and Stiles wipes his greasy fingers on his napkin before he takes it.

The picture isn’t really that remarkable. His mouth is slightly open from concentrating on keeping his eyes wide against the painful brightness of the sun. Other than that, his irises are bright amber. That must be what Derek found so appealing.

“I notice it every now and then,” Derek says. He takes his phone back and pockets it. “It freaked me out the first time. I knew you weren’t turned but my instincts jumped to attention. Your eyes flash beta gold.”

“Why, Derek.” Stiles bats his eyelashes. “Was that a compliment on my eyes?”

He laughs at Derek’s sneer.

“Sure. You know what they say about people with brown eyes.”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow. “They’re marvelous and perfect?”

“They’re full of shit.”

 “Fine. Whatever. Be that way.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “So, what? Do you pretend I’m one of your betas or something?”

Derek tilts his head, quietly amused. “Pretend? No. I don’t have to pretend a fact.”

Stiles blinks at him for a moment before ducking his head. There Derek goes again, turning an innocuous joke into something serious. It’s a nice thing to hear actually. As the only human in the group, there are a lot of inside jokes and references that he misses and isn’t capable of understanding. He’s always fighting this distance, this sense of inferiority and fear that he’ll turn into a burden, even if he has proved his worth time and time again by saving their asses.

When they finish eating, Derek says, “Since we can’t actually go out to do things, I had Isaac pick up something to watch. I’m sick of the shit on TV. I haven’t had a chance to see what his choices were.”

Derek gets up and grabs a plastic bag lying beside the TV on the modest entertainment center. It contains three DVDs and by the frown on Derek’s face, they’re not particularly good selections.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he says, tone flat and unimpressed.

Stiles sets his empty plate on the floor and moves to take a look at the DVDs in Derek’s hands. Derek shakes his head, dropping the cases into Stiles’ possession when they’re side by side.

Three werewolf movies. And based on the promotional shots on the back of each case and the ridiculous titles, they look _atrocious_.

“Are you kidding?” Stiles can’t contain his glee.

This is great. He has always wanted to hear Derek’s opinion on the portrayal of werewolves in pop culture. Stiles can imagine the grimacing bitch faces and the snark. It’s like his birthday came early. He plans to do something nice for Isaac, as soon as he can think of something that Isaac will appreciate and not stare at with habitual suspicion.       

Stiles turns to Derek. He’s nearly vibrating out of his skin with excitement. “Let’s verbally annihilate these suckers.”

Derek shrugs and motions for him to pop in the DVD. Once he does, he leaps back onto the couch. If Derek judges him for acting like a ten year old who got his hands on his first rated R movie, well, haters gonna hate.

 

***

 

They’re in the middle of bashing a transformation scene when Isaac walks through the door. Now that there’s a third party, Stiles becomes conscious of his surroundings and just how closely he’s pressed to Derek’s side. At some point, they had gravitated towards each other. Derek has an arm thrown over the back of the couch and Stiles leans into it every now and then. It’s warm and not quite in the realm of intimate but close. It’s comfortable and easy. Safe.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Planning a third part but since the semester has just started, I won't be able to get that up until June/July.


End file.
